When I hold the pigeon,
white as sun-bright,
when I feel the bone
and muscle, the delicate
lightness of feathers,
and I see the eyes
that have seen this world
grow smaller
and smaller—
eyes that have traveled
to tree-filled fields,
to places where the sun
is a caress and comfort—
I know what that thin-
voiced reggae man meant
wishing for wings
of a bird, to fly—
I hold you up,
feel you flutter
then let you go,
watching me get
smaller and smaller.
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