Follow a bird within its shadow, within the carry
of its cry, within the angle
of its kill. Only something that has no history can be defined.
The kite is far above me. Unmistakable
shape upon the eye. Deeply forked,
the black tail. Inside what follows, within the feeling
of along the river, the kite might go
from flesh to fruit. From frog, from nestling,
to fig, or paw-paw.
Kee-kle-klee. Unmistakable shape upon the eye. Deeply forked,
the black tail. Or, to the closer look, blue-black with,
in good light, the under-worldly reign of purple iridescence.
When I shake with purpose, I have no idea. Spring could be
a set of days. Or a strand of being the wind knows
how to play. This could be immature forever. Greenish
in its iridescence, a rufous bloom to its upper breast
not to fade where things fade in the sea.
Why I shake with purpose, I have no idea. Why I keep
such keys. A continuous fumble for doors, a sound for the hallway
eloquent as go.