SPARROWS ON EACH SIDE SLIDING

My moratory body, gives me a moment of loved
disintegration, sparrows are on the bush
to the left of my floating ribcage
parkbench burns beneath me
I'll never get up in time,
the sparrows are holding
thin branches between
their twig feet fingers--

they shame me obscurely; not to be one
with their twitchy midst, but in not
watching closely enough--
I have erred, black tires
on black ice; and a floppy carrot
through my sadding heart, soft rot body

Their bodies of leaves,
atomic intricate,
flutter other bodies out of shape.

Antennaes buried deep
in each grave small forehead
down toward the nostrils of the beak.
Their eyes and bodies moving sweetly
separately. Their brown eyes
in bodies, moving sweetly separately.

Their brown eyes in brown bodies,
chests downy of white
atop the heavy-scented
hedges of low pine brush,
hung on a puff of exhaust

and not on the hope
of a human breath

OF THE EMERGENCY ROOM DOOR.