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
reinventing,
or expanding
and collapsing them
into a poem—
lest this numb,
and intransigent,
and wholly uninteresting cold
interpose
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?
