The Day Before the Arrival of the Owls
Sound does not measure time. Water does. I have been welcoming the owls with
silence, as empty as the mind of a stone back from its first birth.
At noon, when I have become my shadow, I am more obviously not the human, but
the animal inside.
The song the snow sings whistles dryly, breath lost, till the warmth of your body
meets it, breath found, and the exchange of weapons is complete.
Small animals scurry behind these thoughts.
You were there. I pushed you into it. Your mouth puckered in a child’s definition of
lust and glowed with such joyous perversity.
I want a life like that. I want to see if it is and if it is, to see. Not merely joy, death
or revolution, but a questioning of the impossible.
I want to abandon the symptoms of clothing. The quiet desire in your touch should
be enough to reveal what you wish to be known.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.