Still hanging around, old boot face?
Old tin-can body with feathers.
Two decorative googly specs.
Two stumpy legs, all claw.
You’re just the sort:
long on silence, short on talk.
(the woods at night seen sideways
the breeze in surreptitious feathers
the swoop and grab
We all know what you do with a detail.
You swallow it whole.
Days later we find it, cranked out:
a pair of sad little feet and some fur.
Not for you,
the easeful slide into verse.
Not for you.
A bird of another feather
Ca canny. Ca canny. Ca canny.