moon,
below you
the tasseled grass
is a wave--
the wind
a thin mask
of cloud.
It is a changed
face with each your
gaze.
And an owl,
her
prey
between
the blades,
the sway…
how
is it, looking
down, the sound?
the beak
the claw,
the hairless
unmoored?
Is it as your first
breath
scorched as
you were
before your stone
could go
completely
firm?
Is
this shift
in
the night,
this living and
the letting,
your own labor
the re-
collected,
the weight
the air bears,
and your
signature
pull,
your scope
over a quiet
field
this twitch
and pitch
the trembling
grass, the
neutral
stone now
breathless, but
once, once
a bird,
a vole
rising
dying
a sudden squall
at
night
in
the
pacifist
oblivious
grass
?
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