THE PARAKEETS WHICH FLY IN GREENWICH PARK

are ring-necked parakeets and are not supposed to be

here. they’re all over london and no one’s sure where

they came from but there’s a rumor that in the sixties

jimi hendrix released a breeding pair like some deity,

avian adam and eve sent unchecked onto the metropolis

and now the descendants cry wild, hysterical vapors

of lime, all the tumbling earth green but them a different

sort—and they’re perched above canary wharf as if

it’s what they’re owed. at the observatory i tease the descent

with my feet, forty-five degrees against the grain down

from the precipice, and the dirt is dry and sharp against

the heels of my hands, which hurts but i want it to. lately i

think mainly of my own hollow bones. maybe i’m more feral

than i figured, cherry flesh ripe, my instinct the pit. i’ll let this

life spread me out like a sky. remember, even the sun wants us

dead. so worried about belonging when we’re all tangled

in the celestial root: chaos wants for no one but i was

released, and for a time, survived.