Why do the pigeons on the
silver roof across the
back always look
as though they're dying?

That one keeps falling over
like it could
have a broken wing
or something.

The moment before
it's sucked out
the exhaust fan
the smell of cigarette smoke
presents itself.

That smell cloaks
the shame of being alive
of entropy, decay

the longing of carbon
to return to carbon

Maybe its got a bad leg
it just sits there, a lump
of wet pigeon on the wet roof.

I can't seem to get past
the desire to taste carbon.

If you've any comments on her poem, Sylvia Parker would be pleased to hear from you.