You can move through the air, perch
on the overhanging branches
of trees, or go off
gallivanting around.
You can pick up berries
or grains of rice.
You can hover in the sky,
waiting to swoop down
on your prey.
But can you woof or purr
or holler or moo
or snarl or chuff?
You can ruffle your feathers,
but can you change
utterly the emergence
or nature of them
into the rabbit's soft fur?
Can you walk by,
holding hands?
Can you read this poem
slowly and quietly?
I wish that I didn’t have
what you don’t have:
you don’t know
the greatest of you
that is birdly able
to be done by you, birds,
which I know.
And mine, much more,
so I am ill with myself
as by no stretch
of the imagination
could I move free
without an existent
or predictable
streak that marks
the periphery of me.
We’ve got the same doom, birds,
which has brought us together here!
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