by Judy Loest

In this, too, a personal failing,
No deity to blame for the dead
Mourning dove on the concrete,
Its head twisted into its chest
Like a grotesque after flying
Into a wall of glass, leaving
Somewhere a mate, a nest,
The green world and us poor
Mortals without mystery, without hope,
My hand upon the stilled breast
Losing some of its own warmth.