Taller than saint Peter

               A lover
Stood on wooden stilts
Varnished in tangential light
I could have been blind, for you were not
A seraph but a dream.

But what of dreams, of tombs
of consecrated fiction-
A currency of lies
Demarcated latin
annuit coeptis.

And yet I was abounded by sleep
And who said there could not be  
More on Heaven and Earth
Than in my philosophy

      Of you.

And your blunted foundation
Quivering at the knees

failure is a bag of lemons and the park yard pigeons 

that a women of ninety-two years carries with her everyday

come sleet or rain,

singing softly "please carry me away."

poor Martha.

pigeons don't migrate.

Reading my book against a stained-glass window.
I see you as you go
I see you with rose colored vision.
Divinely tinted
Red, pink, then blue
As you go out of view.
Back to my book- black print