Grace Among The Pigeons Poem by manu emmanuel

there are people who claim to know which way is north, south, all that. somewhat relevant if you need that kind of know. everything is, if you need it. for food maybe or to find a lost lover. or perhaps you're the one lost in this story you're forming in your head. why would anybody need to find a lost lover? where are they lost? maybe they have found a new game to play with a new team-mate. or an adversary. are lovers mates or foes? its all lost in the shackles of abstraction, this love business. but still, to find and to make tracks. go in a direction, one taught by the pull of the stars, the drag of the moon, the senses taut to breaking point, like sex between foes. she knew none of this, all the petty concerns with direction, cardinal points and blah. hers, a life maybe, but to wherever she ended up, nowhere in particular, until that point was reached, soon forgotten, an accretion of past, not future, but all the same. sediment: this is a lovely word; everything layered and staying in place, firm but shifting and nervous from the shudder of life above. the pigeons garnoogled around her feet like shamans proclaiming homage to concrete. obeisance to her grace was a thought she had, but it didn't enter that part of her mind where she would have actually thought it, as in knowing the thought. she felt it. in the dizzy shimmy of the wind, all blow and come back, river weeps pharaoh but receives no munch, fighter with jet of water ooze and ooze, strung by the tentacles of a shadow. there was blonde for hair, blue for eyes, tears for an answer, the smooth bend of the road we wish we could travel on but a hip sensuous to explosion, just about. do hips crash or ascend to the heavens ever soaring like the spirit of a falcon? i have never seen a falcon. is it the same but different in thought to a pigeon as the dove is the same but different in flutter to the flag? what is grace? it is the ability to hold a fart in a cave too small, resisting expulsion into the bigger hole that is everything. you think to yourself, if there is paris, and there is a girl, and she is everything that paris remembers from truffaut or godard, all shimmering in black and white, if paris is this and the girl is that, images and all, moving in one way or the other, then there are pigeons, juxtaposed for some symbol known previous, then maybe as writer, troubadour sunken in ink milk, i shall feed (then) , quench the hunger dead, and write a story about it all. but instead the words are a mangle, a body in vulture track past, behind, the sun threatening to burst in the hung heavy distance, thinking then if that is where it is setting then we are heading east. she knows none of this. she is grace.