I know where the bad bird grows
like an ugly foot
kicked in the dirt.
You'll find him fucking the turtle.
You’ll find the wings reversed.
Much of his time is spent on the street,
reeling in traffic, begging
for bread—People have tried to feed him.
But he shows them where
they can shove their crumbs.
When the rains come in August,
he smokes feathers like cigarettes.
Nuzzles the smog
against his plucked breast. When snow
shows its teeth each winter,
he Xeroxes evergreens.
Sells them for profit.
Steals the sticks from fake fireplaces. It’s April
that makes him impotent. She touches nubs
of amputated fingers over everything,
turning it green. So the bad bird
drafts suicide notes
and practices dying.