March 5, 2011

Every day a mourning dove serenades the air shaft, and eyes sleep-knit shut I trudge to work in too-big clothes through Southern summer dawn. Gravel scuffs stir the sun blurred mist of pine-fence-grass heat wall, and a solitary dove on the telephone wire, plump body to slim neck Modigliani silhouette ready to be painted or wrung, calls for its mate.

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