I stalk the past because it’s a gazelle,
like history, poised to run.

When the lion’s ready she takes the giraffe
in the chest with her whole body.

I have one chance to take history down
so I’m taking my time, stalking.

At the corner of Islington a pigeon died.
Someone will be the first to run her over.

I watch gulls soaring
in updrafts above roadkill.

If you hit a lion on the highway
she’s still a lion.