Lid of a tin can shines in the grass.
Each black stone ripped
up from earth out of the winter
pushes light in my eye.
So much precision hurts,
each leaf of each tree,
each insect, each twig.
I watch an ant
move through the accurate grass
without touching a blade.
I can’t look away—he seems to be grinning.
His antennae twitch when I pull back my face.
Each gnat, each feather, each glance, each death,
each sparrow that flies off trailing my eyes.
Each pause in the muscle of its wings.
Each gap in the world. Each lie.