I wonder if you
looked down
as you flew by
like the blackbirds
back from 'West Nile'
that drop dead
at the sight of breasts
just like last summer
as I rose from my lounge chair
my breasts naked and as bronzed
as August; nipples pointing
towards the dead bird's coal feathers—
black and still
its hot, infected halo all intriguing
I thought I had an audience
as I lay without blanket
but the blackbird died soon
after I disrobed. You wear
your genitals like old
English rags. Tweed eaten
by hungry moths
in flight
