That lone pigeon or mourning dove I saw today
soar like a chip of shale overhead, near India
Point – tail shaped like a paintbrush (Charlie
Burchfield, or maybe Corot) stroked highway
& tenements, bridge, with color. Pigeon-
pigment, rare indigo blue (from rainbow-
throat). Out of whale-scum, offal (phew!)
– urn-pot residue (Hell-rot to Empyrean)...
& so, dark Phoebus, wisdom is justified
in all her children. The full scale croons
in that arc of clear air. Freedom’s pontoon-
bridge, perihelion-balloon – A-frame filigreed
in gold. Up from low hum of redemption-
brow, a kingly Sheba-curve, full of milk
& hard questions. Memphis garbage-strike
groan-crown, toward equilibrium... O Zion-
Jubilee! – all through earth, & blue-gray
sea. & for me? Only a pokey mosey
down Dove St., where we used to be. &
are, J-bird... a pair of cleated arms (spooky).
This, O seraphic weld of bread & wine...
apex-draft up lofty sweep (of stealthy
steel). Rescue for tramping misery
to recognition of a molten trine :
bees’ hula-hoop of union-domes, melodious
facet o’ sun-filed Rocky Face. Peters-
burg’s nocturne-glow (radiant perimeter’s
tremulous Point.). Rust-trestle. Us.