Beneath the killing eye, a plump morsel
stirs— scurries in the dusk-filled weeds.
Rustling in the fir branch far above is a
sharpness— certain as our deaths.

Living is to despise— to worship— this
low percussive tone of air and bone—
heads circling, claws waiting, faithful
to the moment as our hearts’ beating.

Into the night, our souls will go out.
Long ago, some cautious men placed
an owl’s heart next to that of a woman
asleep— she might unknowingly speak

Secrets into the waiting darkness. Who? What
will be left behind this time? Dear life, many little
deaths, precious dailiness— the lovers, milk
and sighs in babies’ breath,

The light in toddlers’ blue-green eyes,
schoolgirls’ tongues bright and brash.
The owl seizes what scurries past.
Still autumn is, the hair turns gray,

Blood rhythms abandon women,
men’s necks sag, lines in the jaws
harden fast, oh, night procession.
Oh, fierce raptured flight, take aim,

Bear down— rattling squeeze engulf
tender juiciness of flesh.