I like to think words go
their own way - like waterspout
or sleep or Aztec soup - but
in the chamber just behind
my tongue a Calvinist
sits at a thin-legged desk,
interjecting, editing. He
adds his touch, wrapping
a small message around the leg
of each pigeon as it comes
from the dovecote. The words
fly out, clattering white
against the sky, circling,
flashing in the sun like bits
of torn paper. But then
they feel the compass-pull,
feel the slight weight
of the message on their legs
and in a ragged line
head for home.
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