With the troubled eyes of a youth
I envied
Birds flying—
Flying they sang.

The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The God's name is Abraxas.

It's just a job. Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.

Does it not move you strangely, the love-bird's cry, tonight when, like the drifting snow, memory piles up on memory?

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song