The dead pigeon’s feathers

make a perfectly plum arch—
nature’s grayscale rainbow. 

Each plume
is a step.

I step-by-step scaled
a Mayan ruin once
in the Belizean Jungle,

snuck away to meditate
but got preoccupied
by a turquoise spider.

Never seen a pigeon’s wings so still. 

The Yogis say
we keep our secrets
in our armpits.

To die like that,
it must be the ultimate
airing out.

For Chrissakes,
I know
it’s just a pigeon

but he looks just
like Jesus.

And the traffic
honking, urging me

to get over it,
and run over it.