got them into this mess—
a rag of wings
a bindle of legs
angels on a goof setting off a debate whose bright idea the whole thing had been anyway, to forsake a clock tower several blocks away from where they’d offered free target practice to pigeons for years, but gave in to redevelopment, waited for someone to climb the stairs to where they were now encased, to stroke a torn wing bud, to kiss each ding with garlicky breath
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