Stillborn Breakfast At The Milk And Honey House

 

And they will come punctually, 

Those dumb, flimsy fly-by-night 

Nest-building mourning doves, 

 

Yet still smartly refreshing 

As the first spring showers, 

And will start melodically 

 

Cooing into our groggy ears 

From the rafters outside 

Our bedroom balcony, nesting 

 

Their fragile eggs and keeping 

A futile eye out for the first signs 

Of any crowing poachers already 

 

On standby, strung out 

On nearby telephone lines, waiting 

To punch the clock and smash 

 

The tender shells of those 

Never-to-be fledgling pilots before 

They are able to sense whatever 

 

Just hit them.