The night birds
Fly into my dark window-panes
Scratching the glass
With their talons
Their stretched skimming shadows
Strong and burning black
Under the luster
Of a polished new moon.
They turn and wing away
Into small silhouettes
Only to return
Larger.
Their hawk beaks
Clacking against the vitreous surface
Again and again
Like sharp rain
That isn’t present tonight.
I’d be easy prey
If it weren’t for the glass stumbling block.
They’d have my eyes out
On the sheets
So that I could watch them
Pulling the remaining life
From my body
Quickly
With a flash of claw
And mandible.
Predatory surgeons
Wresting artery
Organ
And muscle.
I
Sunk into pillows
And duvet
Just trying to read another chapter
Of Ballard
In low light
Before falling asleep.
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