Twelve Springs/Last Songs for a Paralyzed Pigeon
The state of the future is mind—
all the beautiful things at peace.
Glassless world. Primacy of sky.
Gone light. A bird close to death
almost weightless in the hand. Breath,
air, spirit, all one word in Aramaic: wind
gone in, so they can start the inward flight.
Steel, mint, rose. Fallen to a sidestreet
where I would have to find her. God’s mind.
at the mystery of human song,
the mystery of why
I’d sing for her at all.
Twelve springs. One long afternoon
waiting in my hand. My songs
just air, just for her, in
and out of tune. At midnight
it was done. The inward flight: all wind,
Bring me back a sprig, my steadfast dove,
let it show me that it’s true, that there’s
a place for you, space in God’s hand,
pretty wings to cut the air.
That you knew about the love.
We are all birds dreaming, hungry
at the hour of sleep.