Dove Intensive Poem by Terese Svoboda

A name or idea settles on me
while this dove flies an eight
over the wainscoting, while wind
overcomes it, flap by flap,
until the blue of its lungs
and this room both sigh it.

Even doves get frantic in spring,
sore-throated single-minded machines
looking for a gear. Under the bird-swell,
fresh light alarms the buds and in a day
leaves look ornamental
and dirt, so simple, cracks as if beat.

Think of crumbs vs. getting away.
Dear soul, con-soul me, re-soul me,
give me your coun-soul—the lyrics.
The V.P. bags the president instead of
an employee, or even bird flu.
Grey is the new blue, dove.