draft - no.1

Murderers!
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It's not funny how easy it is to murder without sound,
an easy victim. Watch how they never comprehend -
the slightest whim, the musical clues, see how they dream.
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The night romantic, the cobweb trees, the wave length grass,
a perfect night for a long wished end. News of the war:
over an old wound. When the moon rises, the Screech Owl
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leaves the mast of the ship rises in seas of wind, his wings a curtain
closed, open, closed, his heart mirrors mine, each beat unthought.
"Are you mine?" He calls, to the clothed rat, "Mine, Mine?"
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It isn't love, this perfect end. It's simpler than that, it's a continuation;
a meal caught alive. The rat reaches up and snaps, "No. I'm not!"
Too late, his squeak too high for the Owl's ears, simply dies.
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The Owl caught in exploration of ties, and laces, and buttons:
almost cries, frustration to the wind, "Meals should not be wrapped!"
Leaves the bones, bent. His motion spent, he rises to the tao stream.
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Thunder by: thunder by; the night races and threads the stars, in dainty glaze.
The air moves, the light bends, refracts, expands, widens and splays
as a woman does, in coitus, to the man she loves.
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(c) Rosalind J. Lee (2012)

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