The gravel steps shaking
their pigeons, o–
bobble there buddy.
This perfect par, place it on
the lake, the grey weight
whining lakelight is a square
underfooted are my doves
my dove blouse aroused
amongst instituted parlor heads
dove in many dark picnicing
weasel doings and doves of
news inside beans, tidings
look at this duvet they make
the dim lip of the moraine
alternates w/ a smidgen,
a little nest alights the barracks
my sisters always calling
this the hour of the elderly
my yard of doves,
