The bird is in the center of the sun.
Its outline is silent,
as its nude, smooth wings extend
across the sphere of light.
They almost block it.
I can never tell
which part of nature is posturing:
To the sun the bird becomes a wall of glass,
its eyes, at the top of its silhouette,
pass pure lightó
the fire of the underworld
seen through a slit between two stones.
Lacunae: 100 Imagined Ancient Love Poems
Farrar, Straus and Giroux