Grey doves coo toodle-loo
in the shade, splash joyfully
in the antique birdbath,
which cradles red-aquamarine
puddles: rust and salt.
Doves sleep only when awake, in pairs.
Their scaly-clawed talons dig deep
to stay airborne, head perched
on breast, breast softly surging
with the press of waves. We do not
surf in others’ wakes. We sleep
in low tide, sandcastle pillows,
shiny blankets from seaweed.
Garcia Lorca spied two naked doves.
One was the other / and both were none
So much depends on rust-red pools: Doves
coo their mates to bed in earthbound baths.