Park benched and feeding against wood,
I sit the iron in my bones
and hear rock doves singing the ground,
bobbing heads—pillars of a new world.
Forged concrete, steam stone, gravel
separating toes and dust around my neck.
I eat alone with seed-eaters
extra bone in tongue
a sparrow flies in a flock of sparrows. This is my world,
this is our world. Birds molting winter
and shedding grey like water running
down an alley-way or smoke dirtying
the cold sky. We inhabit
the canopy of a cloud forest
and bathe in dust, scratching holes on the ground,
laying in, flinging around—dry like snow.
Sparrow
never rhymes
with Sorrow
We are clean, now we sing.