From the Fishouse

One must admire the desperate way
it flings
itself through air amid winter’s slow
paralysis,

and clings to shriveled fruit, dropped
Coke bottle,
any sugary residue, any unctuous
carcass,

and slug-drunk grows stiff, its joints
unswiveled,
wings stale and oar-still, like a heart;
yes, almost

too easily like a heart the way, cudgeled,
it lies
waiting for shift of season, light, a thing
to drink down,

gnaw on, or, failing that, leaves half of
itself torn
willingly, ever-quivering, in some
larger figure.