The stretching of a bird through darkening
Space has the structure of a glance.
It stays close to the water
To need less.
White notches fill the sky, the cell
Of a god who has lost count
But still hopes.
Does it end? We can’t all be blessed
With bodies arranged like horizons.
The bird makes a calculation.
It is panicking away from the experiment
Life could be.
Look
after me.
The hours are deepening.
The air is suddenly hectic with questions
It wants to avoid.
Yasmine Seale is a poet, translator, and visiting professor at Columbia
[Further reading: The NS Poem: Weekend visits]
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This article appears in the 22 Apr 2026 issue of the New Statesman, All alone