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.

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