In the darkness of the room; I am surrounded by owls
sighing with their blue-white eyes as they sit on tables, shelves, and ceilings
they gaze;
but yet they do not see.
No fault of mine for I know not where
in what factory, in what nation they took their sight; yet
I wonder, in the obsidian winter beyond these walls,
who are you, owl of mine?
Can you think, or are these numbers upon you a tattoo
left by an elder long since past away;
can you smile, or is this happy expression merely a mind contemplating
for a few minutes too long;
And can you feel, or do your memories hold no tulips, no zinnias, no tours around
a field, coyly gazing at an owl sweetly returning your gaze
Bedside owl, I do not know what sorrow you hold, what joy.
But I love you, if it means anything.
Unspoken Politics 