Bird Watcher

Thrush or thresh or sparrow, I don't know.
This is the city; this is the bird that sleeps
in the marble rafters of museum columns,
that chases crumbs across cracked streets
and flighty mates through bramble bushes.

Here he trembles in my hand,
taut muscles yearning to fly
while black eyes like ink
on the tips of a ball point pens
shift restlessly to see through me.

I trace a finger across his bibbed breast, stir
feathers and touch dander like soap flakes.
Heere are his wings, and barbed wire feet.
His beak, sharp scissors that try to bite me,
but I have him by the neck and am too fast.

Here is his tiny toy chest, filled with his swiftly
thumping little heart and all the other miniature
organs that belong there. In those tiny jet eyes
I reflect like god. If I squeeze, his little toy ribs break.

Careless child, look what you've done.