Mark how curious it is with him: 
he would walk for days
in the same field, wearing
no more than a robe,
stooping now and then for
a sprig of woodruff.
His passion
was to be stung by a bee,
his body releasing its secret purpose 
into the body of the bee, that
he might be done with it 
once and for all. It took
his breath away, and 
forever after he stood there 
lonely as a finger: whatever 
touched or hoped to touch, 
whatever tried to count
the features of his profile
found only a thumbnail sketch.
Like this little tiger lily,
his new stance we never understood 
with any human certainty.
Indeed, we ceased to believe in it. 
Either he is letting go
all the animals at once
from his bosom, or welcoming
them one by one
into his arms:
the birds at his feet do not hold
his kindness against him,
chattering to one another that one day 
he will come to his senses,
and sitting down, the whole
beautiful and weighted world
will settle in his lap
like the statue of a cat.