These doves, feathered moons,
Beating hearts with fan-tails;

All they need is home,
A clearly marked doorway;

A place; where sensed by cooings
And almost silent breathing

In the dark, they can be,
Simple, loved, invisible to the world

And each other, confirming what they are,
And what they must do, in order to be

And flight; spaces of solitude
In which to be seen, shocking

Combining their wings with the air
Sudden, rushing future ward