The dead pigeon
excavated, on its back.
I know this work
the finished meal.
Toiling crow ate this carcass
hopping between car, bus.
Full, they flew
leaving this hole
on the street
where leaves and air
will not meet.
Legs bent up
seem attached to yesterday.
And the sound of pigeon bones, crushed
by my foot, shattered like terracotta pots.
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