Hold the doves with both hands. Their feathers
shudder under your sleeves. In this white storm,
your eyes look like flooded basements. Shoulder
blades are the stumps of wings, constantly
about to sprout, almost breaking ground. We
all lived in mansions, but we didn’t know we were
poor. There is an art to descending a staircase
with the wood half rotted, the windows on the
landing shaking in their panes. This is a house
half-tumbled. Release the birds. They will hurry
to the fireplace, swoop up and out our chimney,
sing like smoke.
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