The pigeon flies parallel skies.
A holy mountain touches one
Where crowning sun expands the spring
Then withers to a winter's coal.
But shadow haunts its other wing,
And dumb embrace of gravity
Would plant it in the dirt but for
The hollow of the pigeon’s bones,
The secret to its even flight
Among the obfuscating clouds;
The reason for its easy perch
Like any ordinary thing
To dream inside a hollow bone
Of separate skies become a face
And stars with independent lives
All dust and deities the same.
While man, despite the varied shoes
That pass the pigeon in the park,
Is in its bones a single sound
And morsels of a scattered loaf.
