The atoms of the sun and the water

And my body move in light’s intercourse

A bird lands on the water’s edge, in reach

Throws his head back, opens his flashing wings

The sun has sewn gems of light through his skin

He dips his beak into the water—drinks

Turns to me with eyes black as history

And the juice makes his throat beat, and it throbs

And the juice runs down the definition

Of his chest, and it runs between his legs

And down one pigeon thigh, and I wonder

What he has—I think about catching him

And spreading open his little wet legs

Touch, even suckle, until I too flash