birds

The rook and the pigeon

They both knew it was wrong

but in the warm kiss

of a coming summer

it had to happen

 

The garden was empty

their clans briefly absent

only magpies kept sentinel

and pride dazzled them heedless

 

Two notes of

incongruent tongues

and it was decided

Now is the moment

 

The rook and the pigeon

left the garden

flew over basking roof-tiles

and went out into the world

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Pigeon Residue

Into the heck

of my day-dream driven march

breaks this pigeon leg,

lying in the middle of the alleyway.

This livid-pink scaled foot,

camply poised, missing a counter-part

but counter-pointed by a gristly fan

of tendons, shredded body-meat, exposed bone.

Blood and feathers give me pause,

a moment with this residue of a bird,

a smear of a fantasy of flight

and the lost blue of possibility.

Amputated, grounded, wingless,

It’s just another addition

to the shit and wrappers

flapping in the alley.

I think this is where I will lay us down

so I can carry on into my day

unburdened.