A poem by Kary Wayson.

The beef-blue sleeve from an old magazine
flaps on the asphalt roof of the building below me
wherefrom a robin has lately flown, leaving me

a birch tree
and the breeze
figuring a million leaves
and below that, one long line of somebody’s was-white laundry. Up here
is where

I’m sitting near despair, the still way a sum sits

beside a subtraction. Less
my flesh, absent flash, my tendencies
nearly relieved of me, there emerges the mouth of an urge

to pledge, but nowhere’s an edge
more not a verge, my legs still dangling
from the ledge where I sit very still
and dare overstay
the slow transaction between gray-blue and blue, and bray.