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


with cages under my arms, my pockets
             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
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