Tuesday, August 20, 2013

I Looked Down at the Pair of Doves in My Hands

Murder is mercy when you hold it dripping up
to a moon waning forever, slipping from half-life
to half-life, the slits of its small eyes smaller
and smaller as it lays in its own dry ageless dust.
Don’t flee the blistering sun! What brightest bliss
to behold, the body of a man spent in flames, burning
toward the center of his world’s world’s center.