I know there are pigeons smaller than we are

roaming the parks and alleys.

I have seen us go down lightly 

and sideways

and get back home again one day at a time.

For people like us

there are pigeons everywhere.

 

I know moss-covered brick 

and the short walk back to the studio.

I’m familiar with reclining nudes

and the orange goldfish.

In the dankest of circumstances

I too have dialed the number

and thought twice and tested each one of them

 

as if anybody stands a chance around here

and no one carries our messages.

If there’s something you still need

believe me

they will pick up the phone.

 

 

Because the body’s not stupid.

Because the flesh remembers

and taking care comes first.

A young mother cradles an infant to her breast

and it feels like love.

Like we can do something.

 

Because you would save every last one of them

you are already forgiven.

It doesn’t matter now

that nothing in this world is direct.

Our life is layered.

First we weep

and then we listen and eat something

and weep again

 

and listen.

And eat again.

And it doesn’t matter anymore

at the bottom of your story

 

 

at the very-most bottom of recovery.

And confession.

And then popped for it.

Even the one who’s picked up unconscious

is resisting arrest.

 

And it just happens to be perfectly okay

to feel like you’re understood.

They’ll follow you anywhere.

They will peck at your shoes in the plaza.

A cluster of violets on the floor of the rain forest

pumping water

 

making food.

 

I know that dread is wrapped up in knowing.

I know the way dread tends to consume itself.

And I apologize 

for just barely listening.

But if I cry tonight

tell me

who is there among us who will call your bluff?