by Sean Kelbley
They are an invitation
and petition: the woman
kneeling, arms outstretched,
hands open, offering crumbs;
the child trying not to catch
and hold 100 fluttering hearts.
Power down
your helicopter blades. Stay blank
and barefoot for the moment.
What flocked us here is done,
is doing, will be done. Look
how the pigeons pool like oil
slicks, fly different fractal planes
so closely, beautifully not into
each other. I didn’t see I didn’t
see until the smartphone shutter
clicked—our definite coordinates
arrayed in fluid iridescence; God
a constant math, recursive,
feeding time.
