Three Poems
British Birds in Manhattan
The horses crossing the cobblestone
startle the starlings
and as I lift my arms to calm them
it might as well be 1890
and I might as well be Eugene Schieffelin
ambling in Central Park
and I might as well be Eugene Schieffelin
ambling in Central Park
with cages under my arms, my pockets
full of seed, muttering
my Henry IV. When the flock returns
full of seed, muttering
my Henry IV. When the flock returns
it’s for a sandwich,
half-eaten, tossed by a woman
with bird hips
half-eaten, tossed by a woman
with bird hips
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