In the ache of summer a pigeon descends probably.

Another making of the sun. An air like resin.

In the ache of resin the pigeon seeks another air,

seeks it lower than the sun. A specific air is hot gel searing

on skin, on nape. How licit gleams the stucco;

how expert its seeming warp. Talbot now. The sky is paltry phrase.

One day, his father brought home a wave.

A small one, no real plunge, but he carried it,

furtive, in a damp pocket for us. Talking point. It glints still

unbreaking on the fireplace. So holocenes can’t but be punctual

even if the old jokes don’t ring true. And there is immobility

in principle, too, but still the pigeon traces lower. It droops,

he thinks, and knows drowsily, knows probably

there’s no way at all from an exact furnace.

If at night the radish dreams. What will suffice.