(taken, even as we are)

the owl empties itself entering the open

made simple by the years of patience

direction serves as reverence

the way closes and lifts

imagine the madness of the small animal ridden

under those large wings

its world, now, an altar this, its offering

carried past what remains

the knife belongs to the wound that opens it 

nothing escapes resignation

no, not even the circling stars

every refuge comes to this

on the table by the window

the bowl slowly being emptied of its

red plums

presents itself as such

(when what you see is fire)