i.
I see the bird delighting in the tree
In the goodness of rapture,
Violent carnage,
And in my mind
My eyes converge upon its spot
As if there is some essence
In there
Other than the primal cry,
Other than the starving man in
Indianapolis and other than
That distant moon, so unknown and
Bespectacled with the furies of sounds
.
ii.
The leaves of the tree move
Rapidly, almost bending the stoke
At its wood,
As if in a sailor’s hymn of
A song boon,
But I never saw the bird’s plumage.