Runcible Spoon

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In That Cavity


where my heart used to live

resides a small dove,


and closing her wings

like the petals of flowers,

closing at dusk,


each morning.


She has bathed in dust.

She throws off the dust from her wings.


She holds her brood to her breast,

that softness,

that greyness,

folding her young

in those wings

as the night unfolds,

wraps the small

dust of our bedroom

in its dark arms,

bathes us

in its petally odours,

its splendid dews.