The Sparrow
hops, pecks at crumbs & bits
of rice under the kopitiam tables,
scurries through pillars of legs, a
fugitive of the free world. How did it
enter where there was no window, this
enclosed space
of food and human essence?
of food and human essence?
If a leg moves, it is a branch, breaking
off and falling. There are
no earthquakes.
The sparrow
flies at the whiff of sound, a striking
arm raised against its pea-field of vision-
you do not strike a sparrow. It flits quick
as houseflies, is not a mynah whose cackle
calls its raiding brethren to the table.
This sparrow escapes, is gone like wind, a
thought; that little darkened ray of light displaced
by shadow, a caesura of freedom my body, chained
to its firm stance of earth, cannot comprehend
of placement.
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