Having lived many years in the scrub grass in the way of birds
The boy took on a bird’s kind of stare—
He obtained a fountain-esque vision.
He observed things the way birds observed them.
All the unnamed things.
Water wasn’t the word water yet.
Rock wasn’t the word rock.
They just were.
Words were free of grammar and could inhabit any position.
So it was the boy could inaugurate them as he pleased.
He could give rocks the costume of the sun.
He could give song the sun’s format.
And, if he wanted to end up a bee, it was only a matter
of opening the word bee
and stepping inside it.
As if it were the infancy of language.