A Lifting Of Birds Poem by Leslie Philibert

Hard as an empty factory, a sea of glass
eaves brown with rust and first rain

squares of light oblongate through broken panes
as the day creeps, almost a church service

with the soft thrashing of pigeon wings,
shadows across blackened brick

as an oil moon creeps over a battered roof
and a grey steel door bangs an obscure tact

with the first cold green starting, newspapers
and plastic bags flattering like shot birds

encoded by grease, a naked lightbulb swings over
an empty chair, the evening breeze failing

there is little hope here, nothing too much to save,
just the idle gathering of soot and distant traffic.