Thoughts on Crow Nest

They peck themselves inside the wall like dartsor omens, postcards from a son who livesin hell. These birds, they kiss with their whole head.

They hang out in their bricks, their sleeping bags,with neon signs above. No grass, no worms.No mothers waiting by a phone in case

the young are lost. A boy has done this. I know.One from somewhere where the basement closetshide taxidermy, and lamplights only shine

in shades of red. The water bodies inhis park have runs of black feathers on top,disguising the evidence of frogs,

the reflections of trees, and the glassy shinesof constellations that live wide amongthe other, unnamed patterns in the stars.