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two pigeons on the sill between
my house and the next
tucked head to head and bulging neck
to bulging neck
the wind cut into a tall rectangle
brickwork on all sides
of the winged bodies fall
wet clumps of ash became birds
I dove in a dumpster for lipstick and banana
your face is a rotting peel
lit by jungle tatters
the river's kept locked away from that face
dodging the earthquake plan

the gray mates flap in a gloved sound
they take the whole thoraxed place
between my knees and chest
down to a closed harbor
cracking triple joints
on the belly of a birch craft
pillowed tits in a palm of each hand
thriving lower and lower
into the putty cracks and crevices
put down my mason knife
and traded pigeons for crows
electric hat crackling
all of us in love with tin
crown hair and tufted down
together falling

here comes my bald one
old in husbands
with a mint cigarette
guarding the waves in a picture frame
where they will spill out of a Saturday
she tells the electricity she's been through
the murders committed by being mute
stacked sunlight brassieres
on the body of an old junkyard
newts left tails pumping
on the long teeth of fake metal grilles
we danced a windshield

up to the low rim
of an evaporating sky
the girls in the trees
and the boys in the clouds
who no longer have conversations
two pigeons are more than one
and could be three or four
if they keep almost
kissing and pulsing
their necks like that