Two owls with awls for eyes
look through the leather dark.
Wise, we say. And so they are,
shrewd masters of their barn,
great misers of the moon,
who, having snatched that dime
worn dim midway its arc,
have magnified their vision.
With faces scooped to spoon
secrets the barn has held
noon until now, has felt
like a heart its clot of rubies,
they watch what’s hidden squeeze
to spill; every twilight
they kill, as angels might.
Back, back a moment, whispers
behind old boards forget,
emerge, confess an urge
before and after plunging
wings. The whole of things
a cunning, craving scroll
that blood sun, full sun, sun
rolling its ballpoint thin
across, cannot read truly,
two owls scan, innerstand,
who spend their wisdom swiftly
and swivel in their square
of darkness, knowing it.
—Josiah Cox
Image by Tambako The Jaguar, licensed via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
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