by William Repass

Out with what might as well have been
a bang, the pigeon leaves a trace behind
of hatching shell shock free. Against 
the picture-window's bright lie: a headless
headdress snapshot. Even sunlight
stoops in through it, slightly clouded
by the smattering of preening oil,
to form a blueprint. Severed from
pig-latinate radio-chatter in the nave
of an overpass, from divebombing
our war monuments with whiteout,
the thing lies outside, crumpled-up
like newspaper, or a tuft of keys
plucked from the keyring. These fit
no lock but the most obvious: up there.
Angel-wings, even aeroplanes
have betrayed us: Kamikaze & Enola Gay.
We bang our heads against paintings,
struggling to unpigeon-hole ourselves, escape
the Bird Book we built from ground up.