Don't worry, he said, they always move.
And they do, though just in time.
It's what pigeons are used to.
And even I only slow a little.
They're so remote: the car's steel shell
between a world that matters
and one that simply scatters;
between a bump on the road
and the crunch of shattered bone.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tristan Moss
would be pleased to hear them.