I stand outside, my body trembling in the hues of rain. Wide drops birthed on my naked mind: clarity a surrogate to vacuity. The smart gargoyles turn their heads, Double-take, and dismiss my glare. I look at them for their doves; sunken, feathered gasps of air. Dueling futures strike me now To become with gargoyles, or to err with doves, in the rain. I appear in plumes on the ledge, but am naive to think to trick them so. I will reach out; hope with fingertips. I will not reach; they are foul. What are doves to me? My feet are cold, icebound fixtures, and they mock me, in the rain. I am crying and they know it. The glassy windows reflect my fury; my subjection. Where I meddle I may fall. To err with doves is to cut my palms on the stone, and I cannot see them for my life. Gargoyles, beseeming, claim my hand. I collapse into nothingness; I fall to fly. God, 'tis wonderful. Speak of me proudly as I lay in sight unseen. Be merry in what mourning spells. Here, the bottom-sides of ledges sparkle in the sixth-rising sun since my death. The gargoyles are lucky in spoils to send what I spare in the divine. Up to the doves, I craft of the earth a guilty word: "To send me where I slumber, I divide you from your host. Oh glorious piping lords, I live in dreams where you remain."