Crash and die

I’m in the hallway when I hear a bang
and know another pigeon’s hit the glass;
I feel, I always feel these days, a pang
for flying high then falling to the grass.

You told me once about reflections, light
in seasons, I don’t know. I watched your mouth,
anticipating contact all that night
and trembling as my thinking travelled south.

We tumbled through the summer, happy, hot
until September, when you had to leave
for Citi, London. You’d applied and got
a job. You cheered, as I began to grieve.

We were a fling, for you, a holiday;
I hadn’t really known, and now I sigh
for wing-smears on the window, ghosts of grey,
and wonder why I always crash and die.