I gave him a dollar
and he told me
the birds are eating up
all the wind.
All he needs is rope
enough to hang
his dusty fatigues
between parking meters.
He knows the smallest
things are the loudest;
it’s not the weight
of water crashing on sand,
but the bursting of a million
tiny bubbles of air, that make
the sound of a wave, and if
he sees his hands in a dream,
he is not really dreaming.
He didn’t mention the pushups
he does every morning on
the corner by the ocean,
pressing his tapered fingers
into the filthy sidewalk to hold
the clouds in the sky and
keep the stars from
littering the sidewalk.

Publisher’s Note: We’re pleased and proud to be the first to publish Ms. Himmelman’s poetry. And we look forward to presenting more of her work in future issues.

Bio: Maria Himmelman