cannibals
the pigeons
at st. marks avenue
are fighting over
a piece of chicken wing.
one is carrying
the cold flesh
in its beak
and the other is
trying to swat it away
with gray, dirty feathers.
they make such
beautiful cannibals
in the rainy spring
morning,
but something about
the carnage
sickens me,
or maybe i’ve just seen
too many species
tear each other to bits
and eat each other up
right there on the pavement,
that i’ve had my fill
for one life.
so i kick at the birds
and they take off
toward a telephone wire
and wait for me
to move on
so the blackness in
all of our souls
can shine anew.
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