The Play of Light and Shadow

We want to give ourselves away utterly

but afterwards we resent it, it is the same

with the sparrows, their eyes burn so coldly

under the dusty pines, their small chests swell

as they dispute a crumb, or the empty place

where a seed was once: this is our law too,

to peck and peck at the Self, to take turns

being I, to die in a fierce sidelong glance,

then to hold the entire forest in one tilt

of a tufted head, to take flight suddenly

and fuck in midair, tumbling upward.