in the little bird a song is building building into being-so its own be-ing so every woman has a tree sitting under her from the wild long ago childhood living like it lived in wormy whatness informed by whatness in the would the deep desire, a syllable intending trees builds with twigs into words the would exclusively non relational in terms
Six Winged Seraph,1905 -Mikhail Vrubel	The Felt Sense of Birds stephanie pope - (To Patricia Ann Doneson)
motherhood has counted, without fixity the shape burning uncontrollably the size it could not, dared not reduce in space her space has broken free now, the sound rushes soaked in seraphim, the sound curls around the space, a billion light years in some real nothing you cannot the ending find so deep the law and (so much for endings) this abject shape is her reference point, its deep desire so’ing the body; what now sings into wood and worm & without fixity, too, the round legacy, the deep fisher; don’t ever be afraid of the sound of matter falling when calling calls with deepened calling and falling echoes dying in this legacy the dead the down pregnancies carry how will she not the worm from would & taking   let’s go down to down-ness in the nest where abject softness lays laid gently there and something else   conceived, but not conceptual decays perceived, but not intentional and having fallen into head and neck and arms and legs in curve of person, is law in the tilt of head, the breath the eyes and these recognize you—O eggs what likeness is the like