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Show XV. The barn-owl c i r c l e s , carved; silence drips methodically down. Doubtless the breakfast c u r t a i n s welcome you the same-all too r o u t i n e l y to the paradox, w e ' l l be ourselves. Gave you b r i d e l i f e : neat and clean. In time, your a r t became so grave you couldn't work. A l l ' s in a name. And y e t , again, the owl l i f t s off the wind, wing-heavy, l i f e l e s s ; and the fernshoot u n r o l l s i t s tongue, at peace, One year, two years, we watch them blow e f f o r t l e s s l y by; we make our t r a c k s , and then r e t r a c e them home. XVI. At worst, an evening shot, we sit outside, baffle, and watch the hills blacken beneath their doleful trees- as if underwater, our words surface and burst a field away. All this on faith, one still, we stick it out...the stamina of love... and already we are passing through. Across the street a dog bays, and up rises and droops a yellow moon- docile, floundering dark. Can we hope some lark took hold that's over with: something despised; ourselves; this season we've both so absently become? |
