House Sparrow

My sparrow is dying. But that can wait. The Romans
named her passer, taking in the sense of speed
that bloomed to what is fleeting, and passion,
a sense of headfirst flight pushing her splayed

wings to the edges of control. The whole
intricate piping of her body anchors
itself to life in increments, measures of will,
her fugitive play. When you say that the blur

between daylight and the dark seems no broader
than this fault-lined pill that animates your vitals,
you’re not a million miles from the truth, my sparrow,

but let the waiting be long. May your last recital
embody this growing proximity to tomorrow,
may you lose your voice in song at this darkening border.