Its slipstream can make a rock of the head
In a Turner seascape.
The bird, death, wanders the domes from ear to ear,
Sometimes deafening them;
Sometimes making them bleed.
Sometimes, it just lands.
Then, its stillness amazes you.
The fringes flickering over plastic eyes,
Amongst the corkscrew smoke and sirens.
It makes sparrows of men, men of sparrows.
Sparrows don’t want to die, either.
They paddle as fast as they can,
Away from the sparrow hawk death,
Whose wings are a shadow over the sun.