One true line breaks the circling nonsense.
Like now, how I’m watching out the window
at a wretched bird that eats dead things and
about how I want not to call it by name.
When it’s so simple to say what it is,
and yet we’ve gone and filled it up again.
We’ve gone and filled it so very up.
For no reason it still is, circling,
and taking what is ours when we first
think it, as only a Vulture does, after
it assumes we’re gone.