Intensity is flimsy surrender to night
And dreams, to airy things opening up
To your body, your existence in doubt.
It is gray bats cross-flying on the roof
Before rain has made its mossy maps
And eagles fly low as gray paper kites
Out in blank sky well before their time
As an early breeze fails to flutter color.
Touch a body to make sure it is there.
Smell early dew as you would a snake
In bush by a movement you suspected.
Feel the jerk in a bird’s fistful of body
As the eyes fall on its flimsy existence.
Intensity is a bird’s acknowledgement
Of your existence, of your being there.