consider
the birds
The tit on my fat-ball fancies itself
well preserved yet does not know the word
which says that to be sorrow-free, like it,
seeing your Father always will provide,
is most desired by all that lives.
It never springs to mind it should adore me
who give it seeds and peanuts.
But, little tit of mine, you live on tick.
Soon I will fly to Africa and you
will rue your puny mystical ideal:
such gratuitous absorption in the present
and sole fixation: now, now, now.
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