it's a road nonetheless,
night on the inside
catching birds.
Warm-lit rooms,
the sounds of cars,
I tell myself, "stop,
and go further from the road."
There's a garden.
And an Olive tree from Syria,
where a dove has learned to fly each day
from the wounds love left in the land.
Fly dove, from this stone building.
Fly to my sleeping love like two moons in a water jar.
Carry your message toward two prayers without reason,
and the flames in your body to no destination
so an angel's psalm can continue in the oranges on the table.
Hold his embroidery to the light
when two churches spend their nights far above the cemetery,
and fly to the sun, dove, scattering leaves
about you like the ashes of three shepherds.
And descend on extended wings, dove of america,
dove of Wallace Stevens, poet who died peacefully.
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