Of All This All of This

Watch a pair of hawks ride the wind.
Just what is it you share with them?

Hearts, lungs, eyes, bones. Wants. Not the same,
Of course, but so? There is no same.

All you can share is a bit like.
No wings for you. Few bits like there.

No beak for you. No hands for them.
You need to eat, and they do, too.

You scream to show the mood you’re in,
Plus words, for you, but not for them.

They know pain, but not shame or sin—
Don’t you think not? Quite a few books

On hawks. Most, in the end, come down
On the side of praise for what’s strange

In them, but that’s not strange in them
Or you. They’re not you. You’re not them.

There’s not one thing they care for much
That you don’t think on, now and then,

Blood and sex, air and death. How tired
You get, though, their you’s not your them.

What can you do? Watch them. Feel how
Names float, all parts of all this, then.