Early from the Nest

I found a poem between the legs of an assaulted woman.
It was a throbbing abused verse like a mute, dying chic.

As the clouds passed over the sun it became inaudible and invisible;
The bird died in the dark simply because it fell from a tree onto the street.

In January a hen was sitting on an egg and biting at intruders
to guard the nest and incubate the egg with its ass on folded legs.

The first cracks of the shell appeared and a baby breathed air - in a gasp.

Before it learned to fly it was flailing in the air and without knowing it hit the ground
and poetry drained from the skull of the bird and from between its legs it bled onto the street.