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AND FLIGHTS OF ANGELS

For Kelly A., 1981-1993

The fragrance of mown grass
haunts summer evenings

and diminuendo the sun subsides
from its noon clangor.

Into such valedictions all that August
your father loosed his homing pigeons

which streaming in long ellipses over
the green-shrouded house appeared

to grief-blurred eyes as white cliché,
heartbreaking in their soaring beauty

and dumb ability always to return.

      — Kathleen Carbone