On Birds I don’t know how these poets can filet a dove and skin it; flip it inside-out into a metaphor for freedom or fortune or the fleeting nature of grief; I’d rather skewer a sparrow and put it on a spit. For years, I’ve watched the crows go from lamppost to roof from suburb to cemetery from plot to plot; Relegated to roadkill and the grubs in the lawn – A poet could do something about these crows; I’ll let them talk amongst themselves.