by Bridget Sprouls
In the torn evening, joggers and pensioners move around.
I watch your yellow eyes—
two distant, tiny beads. That wing is all wrong.
Like a sash it crooks across your breast.
A girl with her hair yanked back decides not to see
and you throw your body, ruined though it is, to one side.
Will those friends of yours not flap down and if not croak the rites
then nod as you nod? Who made them
so callously wise as not to roost this night with you
on the wet sod tempting foxes?
I imagine first light, a rustling of leaves
being slung in a pile, your last horizontal blink.