for William Blake
You see them in the spaces between leaves,
industrious in praise of light and shadow.
The sky drips colour into folds of crevasse,
androgynous as starlight, still as a match.
Extend your legs and arms, Vitruvian Man.
Instruct us in the geometry of awe.
With the alacrity of Seraphim, sweep wings.
Let the fire of your body singe the ground.
Look up and see–they perch on every branch-tip,
bespangling with cold, insistent light.