A Dove Is Not a Bird

For Lynda Hull (1954-1994)

A dove is not a bird. You can make the argument in reverse, but it's not

as convincing because it lacks those tangible elements by which we

measure the veracity of anything. An argument is not a dove, but you

can make a case for it-as if you were building a cage with gaps much

wider than the birds you intend to catch and keep. Even if you can argue

the large bones of night into submission, the city will follow you every-

where: the city is a loop of darkness. Even at dawn-the throat parched

and the repetition of the last few thoughts dulled-city streets are the halls

of the great indoors: this island-as-idea shining inside you. That's what

you've come for. That's why the myth became a theory dovetailing into

fact. You can say a bird will not fly without air, all the conviction in your

breath leaving you the way the soul might leave those who still believe

in the possibility of a soul. Like a muddy fact. I make my way to the place

where you're no longer necessary, but the matchbook of memory strikes

another one and you're still holding your essential smile. If you trust my

reconstruction of the scene, I can prove that you looked away each time

you smiled-as if something in your mouth had taken flight. If you trust

your eyes, you know we never look away: our gaze is always fixed on

a target; it's the night of this anonymous city that shifts incessantly. This

new bandit making tracks with one foot, covering them with the other.