The Ancient Modern

Enclosed, Disguised /  Joshua Alan Sturgill     

What does it mean, Grandfather
that you gave names to the animals

or that only you, my Father
could carry them through the Flood?  

Is the secret enclosed in flesh? 
Is the knowledge disguised 

as appetite?  The sky darkens
again; the ancient candles dim.

Yet I hear the mourning dove
at dawn among the machines,

against the traffic’s hiss.
And maybe I will find her, Father.

She builds a nest of olive branches
in the struts of a cellphone tower,

hiding the hinges of the gate
under her cloud-gray wings


All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2022 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.

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