the angels here have pigeons' wings blue collars washed in sweat the common salt in tears tongues swirl in a stew of cultures singing asphalt songs in the midst of seagulls bebop atop the San Andreas a humble plate of beings
"Pigeons at Dawn" by Charles Simic
Extraordinary efforts are being made To hide things from us, my friend. Some stay up into the wee hours To search their souls. Others undress each other in darkened rooms.
The creaky old elevator Took us down to the icy cellar first To show us a mop and a bucket Before it deigned to ascend again With a sigh of exasperation.
Under the vast, early-dawn sky The city lay silent before us. Everything on hold: Rooftops and water towers, Clouds and wisps of white smoke.
We must be patient, we told ourselves, See if the pigeons will coo now For the one who comes to her window To feed them angel cake, All but invisible, but for her slender arm.
If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies.