An hour before dawn, two screech owls start calling,
loud & close.
I feel like an involuntary eavesdropper
on someone else’s scandal-ridden version
of our lives. It passes
from ridge to ridge, shivering over the houses
& the thirty-five acres of goldenrod plundered from the woods,
like a truncated version of the same
open wing that descends nightly
all over the world, leaving only a few pinholes
of available light.
The owls start calling with the suddenness
of all terrible descents.
I have just been thinking about the long stretches
of highway I would have to walk
to visit distant friends, how we have quarreled
the rattle of fear
in every one of his rants
foxed with wine
I make my own water
in the cool of the evening
against the bridge
a dull light
far out on the land
the fine fur of my fear
of being nothing
my head full of ink
I had no wish to draw
fear having come
to live with us
as a child troubled all night
that could not speak
in the city is a city missing bread
for the swan on the water
but the other made of fear
begins to decay like mad
the street cursing in 42 voices
that money is not to eat
time and fear devour us
which God is glad now
to play at cards
like a night made of paper
I bled ink
in war-time the master of money
must give the poor
some other stomach
but the new contrivance
of king and sandwich
broke down into sand
our sin matters little
fear is the only wife now
with whom I lie
light found a little table
with one joint of meat
and dressed it in gold
I would’ve been glad to doubt all things
but joy is great in me
like the fear of death in a king
under my yes the sand may give way
I open my window God help me
to the sight of unsufferable torment
not to speak but to stay present
after a rupture
with the usual ease and sleep
a congregation
at the gallery
we eat and differ in our opinion
hands like seeing fires
some talk in which I smell
doubt and fear
the gun made an excellent sermon
on the difference between us
I am afraid I have forgot
how not to see
Arm in arm
go my sword and pistol
and walk up and down
full of mischief
as if they are friends
or fearful to be alone.
This new, great stir: who killed the city?
The poor in morose clothes,
the two queens,
the wine in many places?
Or the great fear?
Fanatics shine at night.
We found a neighbor with no arm.