the thrushes' game

I cut away that piece and
tossed it behind me
because it hurt like hell
when they would
twit and scritch and
pick while it
took ragged breaths
and beat and bled but 
sometimes
I can still hear them
poking and pecking
at it and
I guess
it makes them feel
brave or
victorious over
its dead flesh even
though tossing gangrenous
gristle about
seems a sick
and bitter
game but the
hermitage insists that
it's part of her healing process so
I hope they will
finish it now so
all their flittering and
tittering can finally fade to
nothing

Monday, 5:24 a.m.

Early commuters
chase time, wet lines; while her hand
rests here on my ribs.