He spent his last days by the fountain in
the little square where the birds came to bathe.
He saw each bird as a kind of feeling he’d known,
imagining its movements as his own. Thrill
imagining its movements as his own. Thrill
of cool water finding its way between feathers
and, at times, let himself become feathers,
and, at times, let himself become feathers,
and the drops of water that ball up and roll like
hose-rinse off a freshly waxed fender.
hose-rinse off a freshly waxed fender.
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