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.