Noah, to His Dove
       

With your wings of paper, fly, my bird, and find
a man who stands in water. In this land,
even far from shore, the brows of waves might break
against a sandy table, glass moon lit
to guide them toward last call, their salty end.

To the man who holds that trembling room
together with his feet—who holds his heart
against erosion—give your gentle body,

its crisp folds, its fragile case, its ink
as sweet as liquor. If he reads you over
and again, build us a house upon his rocky breast,

gather clay and willow. Until then, when I come
to your torn page in the book of animals,
my own heart stills and digs a trench that fills with rain

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Copyright © 2016 Leah Falk All rights reserved
from 32 Poems
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission