The dogs in Europe all have diarrhea. Their shit is loose sienna.
Pigeons stationed on wires swoop low & cluster
over spilt food & what they look for in this florid heat
I’m after.
I let you handle the map, I’ll handle the gargoyles.
The sun transfixes
onto the scuffed floor inside the church geometries
of imperfection past glassmakers cast,
all of it shimmering past possession. Everywhere
I look I see through
beauty, at death. Pigeons, & pigeons.
My father: conjure him.