Her hat with turned-up pistols

Who will up the data?
Someone who can swear to good behavior.

Had he been mother called to the man,
brutality worn out by vigil.

With that crude light on her lilies,
papier-mache opera sets examined her enough.

He turned out the self.

No one there a desolating bit of reason

Seeing the distinction between her own obliged reality,
she would have to live in her undimensional acceptance.

The other is hostile beauty, the world unknowable.
She was going to withdraw the universe,

her earthly desires, reality where she could reincarnate.
I wonder how many human wings are blighted by genius,

a walk with fine print on nature’s page.
No moth spreads itself upon the droppings of birds.

Surface toward interpretation

His changeable world is knowable.

No sense in reality.
A truth rose up with anguish.

How, then, could fingertips,
bone against bone
–mirroring a held order–think birds?

We do not understand arrowheads as Thoreau did.
Some people have them in their eyes.

I had heard or seen in her trees,
the song sparrow.