The grown Dove searches for mud
The grown Dove searches for mud
to disparage its mother
who granted them this pure white.
Lord endow me with divine purpose,
help dry this dirt on the earth
a brown ocean, swelling, percolating.
A window pane snaps from the pressure
I remember the day I was born.
I weep, I weep, I weep.
A bird scurries ‘round my neck
it is a little pigeon
it will serve no purpose;
it suffers a century of burden,
the weight of its child.
It weeps, it weeps, it weeps.
it has bore too many
Beautiful, fecund, yet meaningless;
its children will be born in mud.
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