Monday, 13 January 2014

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.

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