Lines On A Spotted Dove

The mud that makes a man
molds women into birds,

although we know avians
come from dinosaurs and

humans from a heavenly
jubilation of glad apples.

The spotted dove between
the flowerbed and a melody line

bobs on the grass and scans
in peace for pearl millet.

Its ruby heels don’t bruise
a single blade of grass;

sunburst dragonflies glimpse
the spring she wears on her wings

like incidental violas, babies,
bees and lyrical cuticles.

She notices, or senses some
of this – the scent and more…

snakes are gone, turtles died,
kingfishers have flown away –

dust is rife with invocations
that the flesh poorly dreams;

rooms are locked, beds are made,
a white curtain lifts in a light breeze

behind the impatience of tendrils
vaguely pronged like green laws.

If only she could speak! That dove.
Would she then bob on

with a sidelong glance
and say, “Of all the shades

prewritten in this noon
I choose your home and prune

the flailing hours to decide
in which books you confide –

a fellow rambler who’d distil
a fate from retrograde freewill

and learn how god of time inheres
in sequences of telomeres.

There may be more beyond my clue
to sound a thing past coo-coo-croo.

Stir the sugar gently in your tea.
Stir gently, sweet, don’t startle me.”

Taimur Khan


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