In facets of glorious spring
the clouds begin to shape
and take form of a dozen hearts
in the open sky, home to
doves and pigeons which take
food from the passers-by
as they break their bread
into crumbs scattering in the gravel
of the park, broken as the pastry
and as the wandering men
in a distant sea all of them claiming
to be lost and sad and down,
as the fake damsel in the towers
in a lost and hopeless dream--
and poets write books of these
for the couples to read in the
same parks where the pigeons die.

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