He worked mourning doves into a sliver of sky.
It’s not this delight we measure him by,
but how the fierce wing of his task defied
mourning. He worked doves into a sliver of sky
and with them, light—sorrow couldn’t fly
in with thick inks, deepen height into nights that nullify
work. A shiver of morning. A dove-silvered sky.
These are the delights we measure him by.
