1/30/18

The dove perches his frail beak saluting the sun whose mouth drips and sweats embered sighs. He expects a message from this being of the sky, the only father he’s ever known. He vines for his father, yet the sun only casts a bitter note of spice and anger. The dove, his wings burdened with spells, wearies empty in this craving. He seeks the nothing of his father and the everything of his mother. His mother- the foggy cry, the winded wallowing. The dove trails delight, he bids goodnight.