Sometimes I wish I was
a whole congregation;
then I'd have much
better excuses—like
this pied blue profusion
of fat waxy pigeons, messily
ranging the neighborhood:
one minute riding
high upon the majestic
voice of the April wind,
the next low-bowed, pecking
and scratching at every
crack in the asphalt
for a tidbit of breakfast—
never potent,
not concentrated enough
to wonder
whether anything
at all
is going to turn out fine;
knowing nothing
of god—only of vanishing
opportunity.
