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.