Here's something shorter, just to prove to myself I can do it.



I hear the Mourning Dove's twirling, tottery siren
She hints that there's light to look forward to
Perhaps, she will rebuild the nest in my window sill
That I poked at with a bloodless ball point
Sending seasons of the amassed twigs,
And shit,
And one rotting dud egg
From her former Spring's quiver,
Crumbling open to the bricks
Below, where it bloomed
In a cloud of grey dust
And short, downy plumeage

I clench my eyes tight as I teeter on sleep
Her wings, then,
Rebound off the glass,
As she rattles a wail of indignance and shudders to flight
But, I can't yet illuminate
A warm, yolky scape
For her beauty to mingle with
So, I imagine her flying away,
And gradually merging
Into a black void


I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid