Hide me in the shadow of your wings,
not to be seen in flight, when I
would fly with you, not for the eyes
is the wing, the eye breaks off the dove-
feather on the upstretched muscles.
Dirty guano is all the flutter
on the square where tires drive away
my jostling shame from the morsels,
for so much I long for you, with a split head,
with stupid dovelike motion, to be saved.
A bird’s wing smeared on stone, the flesh is a road
to you, if it is, or isn’t, at the end,
and it has no voice, it flops, the carcass of a dove.