Bird, there is no instance of your flight,
no room beside the cloud in your big eye.
You broke the blue glass, convinced the sun
to hide from the white sky while the day died.
Bird, your wings have churned desire to butter,
stuck me in the makings of your motion.
I remain at the bottom of a nothing
that your feathery devices grip, and rise.
No water can wash you from these surfaces,
no wave from any depth of me can reach
the flat forever ricochet of sight,
the marvel of your life, like crystal dreams
that overtook reality and thought
and left behind kaleidoscopic lights.