“An owl, yellow as a ladder, is hinged to the night./ Where is the place he carried from Paris/ like artificial fruit?”
Songbird, leader of the night, bite through flesh like fresh lemons
Imported from Paris, a cabinet, the navy blue waving of a boat
With side boards like owl wings, textured and beautiful through weather and wind
It rolls in from Sydney and rolls back to Paris
On the tip of my tongue, feathers grace color in thoughts
So bold, like artificial fruit, bleeding from the core
A nectar of plastic, so sweet to the unmoving
Mass of a hunted mouse, stricken down by the barn owl
Yellow as a ladder, green as a pear, you sit
And watch the nightbird hunt.
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