Tiny Breathing Sparrows

Is it funny
Or fool to think
Of cancer-changing atoms
That live full well a life
As tiny breathing sparrows?

The rosacea,
of redness,
He felt near pell-mell waters
Has gone straight through his head,
Turned colloidal, broken arrows.

Were the sickness,
the burn by bleach,
hell’s motion stripping vein
from death’s design, the sound resign
toward victr’y further narrows.

Be these calm
and raging fills
bloom discretely separate notions,
one half deplete, twin resilient still,
stitches bend, groan, growth sallow.

At final fall
the wavering thought,
dark matter mustn’t matter,
for breath is dust despite
the sleight of cunning little sparrows.