O little bird
how small you are, small enough to fit in a palm,
no contender, a featherweight. Perhaps
we can pay the boy to trick you out of the bush,
and trap you, and bring you in to this spot
by the window where your little song may
amount to more than a tablespoon's worth of salt.
The glass will quicken your call, multiply it,
multiply your nervous figure and your habit
of play, until you are not one bird but a hundred,
not one tongue but a thousand, sweet prophesy...