Dark Doves

by Richard C. Williams

It's not the sun's amber glove, nor the pink wisteria with its endless appetite; these things are useless, baldachins fit for another's holy dome? I will not run along ocean toes for the nudge of countless elbows, or to garner that which has already been mauled - the familiar shine of inspiration. Here, in the soft tether of my bed, this cell of draped silk, I turn to feather for a dream - preen for a dark dove, thus, I might be chosen for my passion, merited one (just one) small component of her night-full wing.