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| Against winter skies silver bones of dead maple, a dozen owls: the feet of one chopped off bleeds to death. Dead trees full of starling, owls, fly lush away; pigeons speed: liquid-weeping, as pigeons, doves wing. In my dreams, in the owls of dream, through the hate and fright of my special sleep, at the bottom, at the bottom terror, a white cat turns, turning; those eyes stare at me; blue and cold, eyes stare at me in the knives and splinter of that gleaming sleep (the storms and rages burning). when I am sick, self-hurt, of earth pain, that white dream echoes, flying, softly moaning. In the fog-shining dream, someone calls; it calls in a screaming voice in a high urgent keening. Who calls me? (and I love her, love her); but I , lover, lover, I will not answer. If I answer that O my god bright shrilling voice: who calls me from silver pits of sleep, calls me; and if I answer I would (surely) die. I would die. |
Steven Fortney
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