By NICHOLAS SIRIANNO
The stain from where the bird hit the window
Is still there.
I remember walking last spring and seeing it dead in the grass,
Its head kinked like a plastic straw.
As I knelt down next to it
She was still warm,
Her breast thrush red.
The imprint she left in the grass is still there,
Still rotten and carved like a thumbprint in the mud,
Still moist and sagging like a clump of wet bread.
But who will find me dead?
Heart still, staring
At birds in the sky.
