Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 14, 2021

Sonnet #333

All afternoon his mournful song, the pigeon

On the power line, he sings for all the lost

Birds of winter, all the flock mates’ cost

Paid to storms and hawks, like religion

The music is deeper than a syllable

It is just a single note struck twice

But carries inside of it a universe precise

As any hymnal, a note familiar as the tillable

Dirt, turning dirt in the soul of spring

And seeing all the bones beneath the earth

Where worms blind dance; hope for things

Planted is carried in all that death

A pigeon song, a howling wind, all words

Hope and loss eternal lived of birds

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