Thursday, February 23, 2023


Believe it or 
not, noon still comes 
to the square, 

where the footpath 
is once again clotted 
with pigeons—mottled gray 

and filthy 
with the greenish light 
of winter, 

a dozen or more 
swarm at my feet, and beg 
to be perceived. 

And who am I, 
I think, to resist

or expanding
and collapsing them 
into a poem—

lest this numb, 
and intransigent, 
and wholly uninteresting cold 

to rule that safe 
asylum in my mind, 

just as it will surely 
come to ruin
these city sidewalks 

long before one shabby 
glut of birds has 
had the chance to?