WEBVTT

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I know things a
wren doesn't know.

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The less you own,
the heavier you grow.

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A bird is a latch.

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My eye is a key, but
how do I know what

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a red nose and doesn't mean?

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The mystery of knowledge
is the mystery of wings.

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Opening my wings, I
open a door to the sky.

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Closing my wings, I fold
the sky inside myself.

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They have always been two skies.

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No?

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And I must bear the
firmament inside

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as sheer eternity and a secret.

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Until opening my wings
that inner native blue

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is restored to vertical
and alien infinitude.

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I know things a
finch doesn't know.

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Songs, for instance.

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One song goes, the
soul dies often.

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The body dies once.

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Another song goes, wind in
the trees, wind in the trees,

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no heaven at last for me.

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But heaven all along to
receive upfront my inheritance

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of daily eternity dispatched
by wind in the trees.

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But how do I know what a
finch knows or doesn't know?

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The mystery of knowledge is
the mystery of open and closed.

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Opening my eyes, I open
a door onto a world

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you and I both see.

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Closing my eyes, I open a
door onto a world only I see.

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The mystery of worlds,
shared and unshared,

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is the mystery of worlds within
worlds, is the mystery of eyes.

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Open your eyes.

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Look.

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Oh, what depth of secret the
sky be, and what a nearness.

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