I remember lifting a sparrow into the air, and he rose
like a ball bouncing off this table. I expected him
to float awhile, but he fell, little bird,
like a rose opening its petals. No one lives forever.
I did it, and that's why, each pebble dropped down his beak
like a coin into a wishing well. Starving he was, and I was
goodness and purity.
_______________Do you know how it feels
to palm a body like a poem, its mouth opening
and closing, wings burdened by their own new weight--
Close your eyes, little bird. You don't know
the things you're about to do.