Eric Vithalani

The Darkest Corner of Heaven

It is sad
that the pigeons
do not dance
more, and the keys
to the old Thunderbird
only move
with the open window, or
the door ajar and the wind
slicing through
the screen. Peggy
Duffy is not
a poem
anymore. Laced
like a Catholic
School boy’s
too tight
cutting off
the blood to
the toes—tight.
Think a bucketful
of lies glistening
off one another
like silver
snakes of
the Nile. She
is the Sea
Oats and soaked
shoes and choked
socks around
her ankle from the
lunar tide. Peggy
Duffy is not
a poem
anymore. Outside
of Cairo there
is a step
because of
a dream one
man had. I
have found
a house which
is built
, he said.
More than a
house without
roof beams.
Without walls.
Without windows,
he said. More
than a house
which is built.
Bring your clover,
your tea, your silk,
your food and
your sixty- thousand
white ibises.


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