Fluttering pigeons step painfully,
Feet diseased to withered, hopping stumps�
Stumble across the grudging ground
Where nearby there was you,
Close to me on a park bench�saying
How you with a friend, bandaged one.

In vain their deaths: slow, sure, miserable.
(Lay down cooing to pluck and groom
Feathers and finally folding wings � just waiting.)
Emotion�s breeze quivered your voice:
I feel us soon to depart�

Seeing you naked swell in beauty,
To lay down shivering, unwell.
Away I�ll fly to reach treetops high.
The withering sickness-chawing eases
And with the ultimate cure, hopefully � ceases.

Nice, France Jan.�79.
For Frederique Beroard.

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