How to look away from what is painful?--
            ---the stumbling of light                    that
lapse     a faint slur
            of movement                           at once keen
and cottony     nothing instant
            everything prolonged                        drawn off . . .

To see the earwig
             touch the beard of pollen or water
dally along the passive
             sand, the moon       breathe         in its
ring of light--these,
             as bitter
as actually to see
             teeth
rake across a vein.

Then: therefore is the bliss
of holding what one loves
so hurry-hollow?

Because it is to meet
in shape and
moisture and from

deep in the eye
the features of
a ghost? To whom

do we say,

DO STAY,
FAIR BIRD?

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