In the Dark Wood

This, like every other, is a mustering
of words against gravity. When I lie, at night,
in that forest place before dreams, I urge my angel take
the night off while I'm gone; then
I spread wings, like an owl
launching himself from a branch, and drop heavily
onto sleep. Daylight again, toes cold on the dank moss
of the floor, body dulled with weight, I pray her
be again my guardian, envying
how she must be hoverable, how her perspective
must be lit from within, herself a clearing, and how all day
I will ignore her labours. However, if I unearth
fresh words and hear them lift off this white paperscape, then
I have a victory and am winged stone, as of Samothrace.


Sketch for the Statue of a Slave
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