tyto alba

the wing span of a barn owl is 42 inches

42 inches of ghost feathers & furl 

lifted on particle currents of atmosphere 

dip & dive

dip & dive 

silent nocturnal flyer 

dip & dive 

      &

find me  

         there in slumber beneath worry & bramble 

trembling in stasis 

exultant in dark possibility 

wrapped in skin with age & aspirin 

awaiting your golden piercing 

dip & dive
      &

capture 

me 

snapshot of day

dark of morning blooming 

winds have ceased their roaring 

quiet 

colors 

fire 

warming 

this moment lighted stillness 

heart beating 

breath connecting 

all before to here 

simple exacting presence 

October ~ of writing

 cotton moon 

of searching's lament 

there upon the doormat 

words are thick - hardly flowing 

bowing to a coolness unpromised 

by collision & remorse 

poems lie at the bottom of torment 

tucked away & nestled now 

      in layers & layers of felted acceptance 

love & leaves are funny things 

caught in the cold breeze of dark hours 

cotton moon 

of searching's lament . . .  

of gloamings lean

standing in the doorway
-there-
between the kitchen and dining room
looking at your
back
diligently washing whatever you were washing

standing in the doorway
crossing arms 

suddenly 

possessed by Virginia Woolf
leaning 

golden nectar dripping
"There's something inside the bone...the marrow
...and that's what you gotta get at."
dispassionate intent upon discovery
the reason 

he
is not
you
no desire to connect his molecules
one
to
another
infinite
tender aching
flesh beneath fingers trembling with.....
need?  

want?  

something eternal 
(fuck need
and all its friends)
his back is not your back
and no amount of gin will change that
no desire to press against his back
slipping hands down
          down
down
to 

embrace
release

...welcome home anything
of earth and sea
no compass north pulling
             pulling
me to him

he is not you
his back not as regal
oh sanguine Apollo
his
eyes not seeing
me 

standing here
standing
regarding
tolerating 

this quiet house
my invisibility

gin and juice
odds a thousand to one, two, unbuckle the moon
my head upon your chest once more
home to
earth to
sea
pulling pulling 

leaning into
the doorway

dog days of summer

where you see one thing i see another 

depth where you see shallow 

generous to your narrow 

green to your grey 

hero to your callow 

you tease me with your pale colors 

amused by your coyote tricks 

while i smell the wolf 

and taste the winter 

of your summer 

there is no fool behind door #2 

no sycophant jester performing for the tools 

i see the glory while you see the grim 

sky blue to your idiot sublime 

waking up to your full cup 

again and again 

begin 

*there

grief 

lies in the shadow

untamable 

unnameable 

vulnerability alludes the tapping fire 

as wildness calls us to the salted Sun 

speaking in tongues of divinity against the structure 

of fear .... 

of summer ....

i step aside ---into the corner of this waking dream
surrendering all sense of self & line
you are voracious

blurred by shadow 
intent upon the breaking of the glass mask & tower walls
no weave of fabric holds
as your tongue circles my breath
the mandrake bores into the damp earth of waiting 
the blending fuck of scorched souls arches into a mandala moment
arched

pressed 

open  
chaos melts 
and fractal light bends into the surge of heat & primal ache 
quiver

moan & tangled  
air is sucked & held 
holding

holding

for the wash & rush of sacred water over the sharp & tattered edges 

from my corner . . .
i quietly watch

blinded by the borealis 

quenched  

by it's taste