Make me a dove. I just want to be a dove.
The Poor Pidgeon story:
The jealous Love
of the divine dowry
of the Turtledove.
The cosmic kamikaze
of chanceless charm
holds his black sheep wedding
in a funeral home.
The blushing bride-to-be
can’t get the ring on.
The future’s out of reach,
or cradled like a still-born.
Is that hearse hereditary?
Are we born behind bars?
Providential poverty
professing faithless psalms?
If we can’t invest in purity
and can’t quite cleanse a heart,
were we born without virginity?
Were we just fucked from the start?
