New Sparrow, New Sorrow
       

Moon burnt up in a tree limb's wobble.
Heaven's sort of nimble.

Not to want the origin of light, to want its myth.
To want the stroke across the jaw without the fist.

Walked among unplotted ways.
Made maps to joy. Waited near birds.

Liked haloed fury made of things.
Foraged through the brain, begot a bird.

Her throat nestled in a lion's jaw,
her heart the throb about.

Say stars, said the image,
then climbed into a blink

splayed amid the eyelids
and places eyelids made.

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Copyright © 2011 Matthew Henriksen All rights reserved
from Ordinary Sun
Black Ocean
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission