THE ONLY WAY OF LOOKING AT A BIRD

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.