Little Ache

That sparrow on the iron railing,

not worth a farthing, purchases a realm

its shrill cries measure, trading

dying for being.

It's up to no good,

out to overturn a kingdom

just by swooping into the right kitchen,

or upsetting somebody's aim.

For my pleasure, I'll call it Good News,

or Little Egypt. For my delight,

I'll think of it as needle and thread.

Or a breathing remnant

restored to a living cloth.

Or scissors

trimming lament

to allow for everything I don't know.

For my happiness, I'll call it

Pocket Dictionary Full of Words in Another Language.

For my gladness, Feathered Interval,

The Deciding Gram, Geronimo.

For nothing, Monument to the Nano.