851

A flying pigeon hit me on a fall day

because an old clothes buyer's junk cart

had surprised it in the gutter: license 851.

The summer slacks and skirts in the heap

looked not empty and not full of their legs,

and a baseball cap remained in head-shape.

Death is a complete collector of antiques

who finds, takes, and bales each individual

of every species all the time for sale to god,

and I, too, now have been brushed by wings.