V. Penelope Pelizzon

On my birthday

A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his
one joke. And now, nearer, a murder

answers, chortling from the pale hill’ s brow.
From under my lashes’ wings they stretch

clawed feet. There the unflappable years
perch and stare. When I squint, when I

grin, my new old face nearly hops
off my old new face. Considering what’ s flown,

what might yet fly, I lean my chin
on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.