My Sparrow
“In drops you lose yourselves, yet you must dive through untold fathoms.”
--Farid ud-Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds
Bewilder me, You, who march the feeblest Sparrow across seven cities, cathedral junkyards, Kong’s last stand, No Man’s Land. I have grown accustomed to yearning. Long-haul howl and wonder, as if my lost, my lonely. You impressed upon me your feather, and by and by it escaped the seventh thoracic vertebrae.
Sit tight. Aspens are not stunned to find themselves falling. My Sparrow—flummoxed by wind, thin as November ice, shelter here under the back porch where the bell jar is hidden. Hillocky road. Bathwater scummy from my praying. Who wouldn’t love a bright God?Each difficulty one and one and one–dirigible, Palhaço, wind’s clown, bungler, jackass to a tick, picked up by the scruff, what number of one hundred difficulties before the whale draws in a breath? Still, the White Painting softens the fall. Wantand seed, my ship of fools, my Duck lost in aquatic dreams while Heron plods the empty shore, Owl living out the mad days in ruins. Sparrow, frail as hair—have you considered not existing? Thirty birds and thirty birds. You draw in a breath of wind and eat the world.
“In drops you lose yourselves, yet you must dive through untold fathoms.”
--Farid ud-Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds
Bewilder me, You, who march the feeblest Sparrow across seven cities, cathedral junkyards, Kong’s last stand, No Man’s Land. I have grown accustomed to yearning. Long-haul howl and wonder, as if my lost, my lonely. You impressed upon me your feather, and by and by it escaped the seventh thoracic vertebrae.
Sit tight. Aspens are not stunned to find themselves falling. My Sparrow—flummoxed by wind, thin as November ice, shelter here under the back porch where the bell jar is hidden. Hillocky road. Bathwater scummy from my praying. Who wouldn’t love a bright God?Each difficulty one and one and one–dirigible, Palhaço, wind’s clown, bungler, jackass to a tick, picked up by the scruff, what number of one hundred difficulties before the whale draws in a breath? Still, the White Painting softens the fall. Wantand seed, my ship of fools, my Duck lost in aquatic dreams while Heron plods the empty shore, Owl living out the mad days in ruins. Sparrow, frail as hair—have you considered not existing? Thirty birds and thirty birds. You draw in a breath of wind and eat the world.