(part 2)
& this neglected masterpiece, by
W S Merwin:

   "Some Winter Sparrows

i.
I hear you already, choir of small wheels,
    Through frayed trees I see your
  Shaken flight like a shiver
  Of thin light on a river.

ii.
On a bitter day I juggle feathers.
    My hands hatch, I am better
  Answered than puppet masters,
  With small winds at my fingers.

iii.
You pursue seeds, wings open on the snow,
    Coming up then with white
  Beak, speaking; in my deep foot-prints
  You vanish, then you flower...

iv.
Like no other: one white feather in either
    Wing, every turn of yours
  Surprises me; you are quicker,
  Girl, than the catch in my breath.

v.
Vanity: alone with many crumbs, teasing
    Each briefly. When the rest
  Get here, the crumb nearest you
  Will be worth scrapping over.

vi.
Caught in flight by harbor winds, you stumble
    In air, your strung-out flock
  Shudders sideways, sinking, like
  A net when heavy fish strike.

vii.
More snow: under a green fir-bush bowed low
    With flakes broad as cats' paws
  You hunch, puffed: if you do not
  Move maybe it will go away.

viii.
I find you too late, shrivelled lid half drawn
    Grimy eye, your wings' rigor,
  Dishevelled breast feathers worse
  Than ice inside my closed hand.

ix.
And more than one. Who would save bits of string
    Kinked as stubbornly, as short,
  As dirty, knotted together
  Into fours, as your feet are?

x.
You shriek like nails on a slate, one of you
    Falls dead at my feet, skull
  Split; and it is still winter,
  Not yet the season for love.

xi.
Those blue pigeons: there is snow still to fall.
    But in the brief sun they
  Bob, gobble, begin their dance.
  You doze then, row of old men.

xii.
Whether the gray cat is at the corner,
    The hawk hunting over
  The graves, or the light too late
  To trust, you will not come down."

  Two of mine:

    "Designated Driver"

Flower ewer, a wan unaware werewolf
    stares into your stark gulf
  as though there a hieroglyph
  revealed the hidden plaintiff.

Flower ewer, a wan unaware werewolf
    himself against makes war
  whose software spites his hardware;
  thus, as I pour, I despair.

  "Spiderland"

  For pure air, this tasteless poison;
  punishment for those whose foison
overachieves; you fight lies until noise
    destroys that horizon.

  Your love shrivels like a raisin,
  richer, more swart; you emblazon
body with hues of yet unrisen rays
    and craze in that prison.

  If, when you’ve garnered your dozen
  trustables, none pays to cozen:
call it mercy--mumming what treason does,
    muzzled, at that season.