|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.
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Page updated by TiPi, 10/27/2000