owls to night are as stars the moon

eyes that don’t flinch,

beaks that echo not a twit,

silently still and quieter-

greyish sheens that glean and shine.

somber howls all scream toward-stars hanging nigh

they swing, so they swing

writhing necks of birds can’t sing

a peering hole with many pupils

how it gapes, how it stares

squinting onwards, honing in

continuing on to peek.

unable to reciprocate,

your puny iris winks

clouds suspend from puppet strings

they circle round the eye

manipulating distance, afar afar

one drops before your bed and sighs

‘get upon this barren cloud,

woven by optic thread

we’ll meet again before the cornea,

swinging like those stars once sent’