There was a dead sparrow in the freezer
between a bag of dill and two pork chops,
small as a crumpled glove,
its beak full of permanent opinion.
The light came on like a liar entering church.
I stood there barefoot, holding mustard.
From the downstairs flat came opera and coughing.
My sink held three forks and a peach pit.
I thought of you in your red underwear,
smoking by the window like rent was a religion.
Even the sparrow looked better preserved than us.