Poem 493

A happy friendly poem, proving I do have them …

( I like the handful of pigeons, the image of daylight like ice, and waking out of sleep’s warm convections … )

A Stroke Of Luck

          My hands open to receive you
                                                                       pigeons
by the handful thrown against panes of sky
and hills
                  palms up to morning
we flatten against the icy surface of day
light
          look back into ourselves
                                                           the warm convections
of our sleep
                         my hands are open to you
      your hair calls me into it
eyes with hazel at their core
                                                        we defeat
birds with our traffic
                                       peel collisions
from our skin
                           it's a stroke of luck I don't like
anyone in particular
                                          I can be pleasant
to everybody

starting with you