this bird
upon the pavement
outside
my window.
quiet
and bloodless,
but still
and showing
a softness
that only death
can bring.
and the pane
cracked, with
a small
bullet like hole,
where the beak
struck. what
moral, what
lesson
in such things,
i'm not sure,
but give me
time, let me
fix a stiff drink,
get the broom
and a dustpan,
and i'll think
of one.
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