It’s the same every morning: reading, discussion, yawning.
Poetry needs to be concrete…
Today, the pigeons in the window are fornicating.
She starts it, waving
her black and gray tail feathers
high in the air. He can’t refuse.
Let the metaphor speak for itself…
They are a knot rolling along the ledge,
wings flapping wildly,
skinny legs fighting for balance.
Condense, condense, condense…
They are beautiful,
moaning behind the thick glass.
Who can tell me the story of this poem?
The pigeons are making love in the window
and the students watch as they finish
then pick the dirt from each other’s feathers.