The church owl’s face is a rough heart-shape
but turns traitor in the wind. Rotating
the radio dial of each ear, tuning in
on the scrambling signal, counterspy
hooked to its medulla, it adjusts
this way, that, and in doing so, alters
the outline. And just as a human face is
sculpted by a blade against the lobe,
just as my clothes on the chair
become some agog gorgon’s head
in the closed fist of this night,
the owl’s heart can as easily be
a hunting diamond, a spear’s good eye,
a blunt club, opening the top of a skull
a hungry spade, finding its X.
