dream owl

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The little owl that
lives inside me
flies out every night
to collect my dreams.
Delivered with a
soft beat of wings,
mistaken for sleep sigh,
talon-marked visions
draw audience of
my night eye.

When that owl
visits high grass
nourished with
small beasts,
I dream light and
heady, of boughs
with new leaves
and fresh split figs;

when she visits
beaches long and
gray, breakers
swollen with tide,
I dream dark, of
hearts drawn on
crumpled paper
and candle smoke.

She has all night
to fly and comes
back full and tired
to settle in my
cupped palm,
which curls
into me at first
dawn's stretch.

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