I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees! The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray Are of advantage to me; And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark. It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death. For the one path of my flight is direct Through the bones of the living. No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me. Nothing has changed since I began. My eye has permitted no change. I am going to keep things like this

old pond a frog leaps in water's sound

To make love to a stranger is the best. There is no riddle and there is no test -

To lie and love, not aching to make sense Of this night in the mesh of reference.

To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day, And understand, as only strangers may.

To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart Preferring neither to prolong nor part.

To rest within the unknown arms and know That this is all there is; that this is so.