in the instantaneous yoga of a sparrow’s eye

i saw my death, and saw that finally i

emoted soft as dying into flight

as light as feathers in the sparrowed air.

i doted: she was lovely like a mute,

a mucous, like a mollusc, or like

musical or moist or like a very

graceful very muscly movement,

and so seriously so morbidly afraid

she made me that i made

myself respectful and caressed her

with an ancient gaelic word.

she is a little slender swim; she is

serene and lovely-mannered and i stretched

my life out long, as long as i could

to seize her, and so i came close to her.

and in the sparrow’s instantaneous death

is coiled the wicked yoga of her eye.

it is quick as cheep, snatchy as peck,

a swift little swim, slick as a new-laid egg.

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