City Birds

1 November 2015

And the crow was the big black bin bag
and the big black bin bag was the crow
and their blackness shimmered
taking the light to purple

And their struggle separated them, bird and bag
a bridge formed only by a sharp beak
pecking, tearing, woodpeckering
the bloated blackness at his feet

And the incision was a keyhole to the blackness
Snowfalls of paper threaded out; a magician’s hankies
Discarded, shaken from the skewering beak
The skin, the fat: to the guts of it

And a smaller bag of viscera found within
cut through and through and through
And the big black bin bag erupts a lava flow of scraps
And low, the happiness of crows

This entry was posted in 52.0: TOIL and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related Posts:

Please read Cordite's comments policy before joining the discussion.