This Song for
the littlest steps of dove
the dove of my blouse is dirty
my house is dirty
the parlor is a dovemouth, off-colored
with dust and whatnot.
The dove of my treading is dark
and picks things up
like bread. My dove
does the doings and
receives the news rolled up
and wet and picks it apart.
I take heart.
My tidings cinched in the lips of dove,
my duvet wet and heavy and grey-winged
with stains, but a smidgen of dove
remains, a little nest alighting
the barracks where
things get hairy and
blown, as I am, over.
It’s the hour of yards
& yawning doves
who come in bushels, in braids
in shades of sleep; static & deep.
My peeping dove, my purple gullet.