If you will allow me time.   To make a dove.   I will spend it

Well.   A half success is more than can be hoped for.   And

Turning on the hope machine is dangerous to contemplate.   First

I have to find a solid bottom.   Where the scum gets hard and

The scutwork starts.    One requires ideal tools:   a huge suitcase

          Of love   a set of de-iced wings   the ghost of a flea.

Music intermittent or ongoing.   Here.   One exits the forest

Of men and women.   Here.   One re-dreams the big blown dream

Of socialism.   Deep in the suckhole.   Where Lou Vindie kept

Her hammer.   Under her pillow.   Like a wedge of wedding cake.

Working from my best memory.   Of a bird I first saw nesting.


                                                                                   In the razor wire.