What Birds Plunge Through

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.

from “Untitled,” Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Stephen Mitchell

When the boring
like a drill
pierces my brain
I keep
my pure abundance
to myself

The anger
that rides the thread
of the hard bit’s shank
beads up like water
on a loon’s wing
rolls off into the Open
and disappears
into that vastness

Sometimes
the boring gores
a room in me
and I creep inside
where a forest
basks
elemental
and birds
soar