Yesterday I sat at my desk
and watched a honeyeater skip
along a thousand leaves like arrows,
closer to truth than I could hazard.
Its helmet of sleek feathers shook
in the long, fluid rain. These eaves
say nothing of Oppen’s culture
of fitting: quietly the roof lies
that the carpenter has finished. No—
this house was built without a level,
chambered and chiselled
to the rough designs of the heart.
The bird chitterscolds and darts,
carries the day in its wake.