First Person Singular
Snowblind from the fury of that storm,
I stare at night as white as any screen
forgotten in some vacant movie house,
the projectionist having wandered off
to lob stones at sparrows
while the cat watches.
The soothing hiss of no-sound
comes from the speakers and the sky.
Into the stream of light
I raise my hands,
and fingers spread like wings.
The hawk stoops in the sun.
There is peace in his talons
for the desert mouse
who keeps a careful thoughtless life
beneath that wheeling dark.