It is no contest of strength or endurance.
The white butterfly flaps, like a pair of pillowcases
in a breeze, around the sparrow—
flaps fondly as if the world were all about
beauty or friendship. He hops as sparrows do—
hops, dancing, near her, isolate on the roof.
Of an overcast day, they are the soul.
Or she is the soul, in her white robes.
He, the body in monkish brown, levitates
like so, like so. He does not need to spread his wings
to devour her. One petal of her floats
gracefully above and away, as if she had merely
misunderstood this dancing
that seemed it was what they had come for.