The mind’s harp became
too distant.
At the edge of my eye,
one eagle. Then
two. Then three.
The once distant heart
returned.
The young woman on
the bus told us to
look for
the brown ones. Then
there were twelve.
Some of us weren’t
meant for
the world but are
in it. Silence is
immortal. So is
beauty. If I look hard
enough, thinking
finally disappears.
If I think hard enough,
suffering appears.
The woman is
laughing now, telling us
about the death
spiral. When two eagles
who might mate
lock talons and
freefall, spiraling.
How sometimes they can’t
release their grip right
before hitting the ground.
When she says this,
I hear a sound in
my head. A sound
I’ve never heard before.
Two eagles hitting
the ground.
How many sounds
I’ve never heard before—
the opening of a
wildflower. The sound
of the Iliad
being written.
The coins in a
flower girl’s
pocket. The tip of
moonlight as it touches
the face of Jesus.
It’s not too late
for me to tell you
about the
sound of the moon
on the face of Jesus.
Imagination can
be transferred. In the
hours you are alone,
it oils the
soul.
When the bodies
flung themselves out of
the burning building,
the firefighters stood on
the ground, stunned.
Their eyes
barren-sublime.
Behind them,
above them, a thump,
then another, and
another.
Pessoa said art is
useful because
it is useless.
It feels useless
to describe
the eagles together
in the field, the way
they stood
on small
wood piles. One looking
one way, another
looking another
way. How I can hear
their feathers arching
from here.
