acrid

i.

a dead bird rots,
stomach heat-split and picked on,
feathers stuck to the concrete
when he peels it up.



ii.

he pours kerosene,
holding one shaking match lit—
fat melts, entrails crisp,
marrow dries and bones crack,
ashes rise against the wind,
falling on gray buildings.



iii.

in his midmorning dream,
the phoenix soars.