Sometimes I admire the way the scrimmage between crows
for scraps of carrion thrown to the dumpster sounds.
It’s not something I often hear these days. There’s no shame in that.
Without shame, the ability to foster guilt, am I still considered human?
The drama of thoughts like these breed reasoning. The hue of sex.
I should know better than to sacrifice intelligence for pleasure.
Is that what makes art so desirable? What makes the flesh tasteful?
I should stop listening to animals lose their mind,
but my neighbors can’t stop fucking, so why pretend?
A man explodes inside me a few times a month.
He asks if I’ve ever seen that movie where a group of crows
dive-bomb a boy in the field. A murder, I say.
A group of crows is called a murder.