Neither owl nor nighthawk, something more pre-
historic: you won't find in the field-guide,
its wide black vulture-wings that soar and glide
invisible. But look across the full-moon. See
the naked buzzard-head stretched out; cocked eye
not for flesh ripe-dead, but spirit a-gape.
Hours of dream is feeding-time. The nape
exposed and memory bleeding. Times pass by,
the Furies stay and circle, never quite
stoop down on stinking pinions. Feathered quill
each wing-tip inked indelibly. The hand
remains your own; what sentence could you write
to strike a word out? What has been is still —
long after rising Sun lays bare the land.