Those doves balanced on a winter branch
burble a dialect I can't follow. Yet
somehow this is where it starts -
everything (somehow). My hunch relies
on a gray triad - wing, sound, breadcrumb.
Wing (which never shed its shadow).
Flute-sound (grieving, loving, low).
Abject breadcrumb (absent swallow).
*
2.11.2004
recent mumble from Dove Street:
Labels:
rejected poems
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