Where is the broom,
my dustpan? I do not
like this voice
speaking from the dust:

I will sweep up
‘repent.’ Throw it
away as a rumor
silences the wind
of a thousand beating
wings echoing
the instinct to fly
south.

Ignore the inkling
voice growing
as mustard grain;
prune the birdsong
and build a scarecrow
from its branches.

Make their mating nests
into a crown of hollyhock
sapping strength from
the tongue of turtledoves.

Give no heed
for the Lord hath done his work
and given power unto us
who hearken to the precept
that:

          floors must be
          spotless
          and
          skies barren.








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