THE ONLY WAY OF LOOKING AT A BIRD
( for Glyn Pope )

she looked at the bird
with all of her self

as if by some alchemy
of thought

she flew into
its shape

as it became the air
her mind opening

its wings
to the sky

the house now
a little blue egg

far far below her
her voice curving

into a beak
that flung its being

into the song
of self

scrawled across
a sky

becoming sunset
so that

becoming human
again

was a grief
that could only be

expressed
in birdsong.