bowl of orchids

why I don't write poetry

just
open my head
and look in

see the flock of pigeons
turning, suddenly
as if thrown

a hundred wings
catching the sun
in a dazzle of white

and my breath fills
with the same
gold

words cannot hold it

see the raven of poetry
resting its heavy feet
on my shoulder

I do not hunt, it says
I'm not a hawk,
never will be

wake me up when
a pigeon falls

I take dinner
on the ground