Intensity is a flimsy surrender to night
And dreams, to airy things opening up
To your body, to an existence in doubt.
It is gray bats cross-flying on the roof
Before rain has made its mossy maps
And eagles low- fly like gray paper kites
Out in blank sky well before their time
As an early breeze fails to flutter color.
Touch a body to make sure it is there.
Smell early dew like you would a snake
In bush by a movement you suspected.
Feel the jerk in the bird’s puny body
As your sudden eyes fall on its existence.
Intensity is the bird’s acknowledgement
Of your existence, of your being there.