pigeon

hair hanging lank

the day settles, and weaves slightly

the lights on the water

wavering across

the film on the window

--your eye is such a window

--the pigeons coast

along the stone, in the blue wash

of the morning, streaming

into the streets

and tautly burning

light of the afternoon.

be in the fountain

and on the steps and wet your feathers

and the light scrabble of feet

in the shadows

nor consider the courtyard, too closely

and disturb

the ungovernable communion

of the sky and the ground

they have no eyes

and only for each other