Two mourning doves
phone-line sitting sunrise
on a Wednesday without coffee,
swinging, stolid above concrete
and trickling passerby, come
in cars for good spots—
the doves step out into nothing
thrashing sky downward
like treading water, like
catching water, like Jesus,
straight out suicidal
at the blazing horizon—coos
of second-thought prayer
reverberating like red bells
for mercy from heaven to catch
them, lithe lovers, in gravity—
they boomerang and swoop back up
to phone-line perch—gargoyles
above permit parking—stolid
gray and feathered
faith, this Wednesday-
without-coffee sunrise,
a pair of mourning doves.
Author notes
re-posted for winter list.
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