A bird with a name it does not itself
recognize, and I cannot recall
if ever I knew it, and no matter
lives off the great gross Rhinoceros of Africa.
The slathering hide of the great gross Rhinoceros,
slabbed like a river in a stiff wind,
is rancid at the bent seams, and clogged
with lice and fly-grubs at the pores and pittings.
The Rhino-bird, whatever its unknown name,
attends its warty barge through the jungle,
the feast of its own need picking the tickle
of many small corruptions from behemoth
who, impervious to all roarers, is yet defenseless, alone,
against the whine of the fly in his ear, and stricken
to helpless furies by the squirm of the uncoiling grub
tucked into the soft creases of the impenetrable.
My bird-and oh it is my bird and yours!-crawls
him as kissingly as saints their god, springs
circling over him to foretell all coming,
descends in the calm lapses to ride a-perch on his horn
or snout. Even into the mouth and nares of the beast
he goes-so some have reported—to pick infection
from power. And can the beast not love
the bird that comes to him with songs and mercies?
-Oh jungle, jungle, in whose ferns life dreamed itself
and woke, saw itself and was, looked back
and found in every bird and beast its feature,
told of itself, whatever name is given.
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