even the starlings rut & fade early, tired
of musing, also this winter month
spent at their own sexual pollock art.
flys zero in, tack the buckled screens;
passers-by seem to approach one & every
line of sight, only to pass by your way.
it’s the pressure, always is & will be
in the minds of people cloistered &
preening on a wing opposite, & me,
i type to clench the blood free of
icicles i curse or cure the systemic
benefit of a deadline, an atonal scale:
the financial years pass prettily
like a thousand & one plane-trees
while i drive a car, mist burning.