The pigeon rested,
an Achilles after
yet another battle,

armored, a knot of rage,
saying not a word,
for after blood what

can be said without
blasphemy? The next
battle, the next,

fruitless rehearsals
for death that does not
come, no matter

that a man wants to die.
Even wrath must rest
at the edge of the garden,

knowing wilting leaves;
shriveled, forgotten roses;
a scuttling among the weeds.