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The doves circle
From the treetop to
The antenna to
The smoke extractor

Their tails are
Like scallop shells
Cream white
As they clatter up

Black collars
Cuff their milk-throats
And they call
As they sit sadly

And stupidly
In the wobbling air
Pink and grey
And clatter up again

In the evening
Their colour is at first
That of brainmeat
And later that of blood

And the air is laced
With smoke.