Babylon Honda

It was a red dove said the deacon
that flew from the room out the
door and down a Gullah tongue

on its back like on a water slide
and out into a Ramada Inn
wading pool at night. It's a

red dove said the attendant that flew
from the little blue chapel into
the red hilled limits like most

things, stork to nothing and not even
a little bit hurt. It was
a red dove he said ate bees

from calla lily in colors grown
penitent and blue with night.
The red dove with the night left

on its neck was told to us of words
by the crows hobbled into
packs. It was a red

dove with a song down deep in his craw
that kept us up nights, a rune nesting
out in the boondocks blue gullies.

Copyright © 2007 Joe Robitaille All rights reserved
from Brooklyn Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission