Winter Hatches from a Faberge Egg

 

In dreams, strangers congregate like grackles.
Your heart, a telephone wire.
Their love for you is fleeting, which you like.
Snow falls but it doesn’t hurt.
Someone shows you a video of a blind owl.
Its eyes black littered electric blue.
So pretty it’s stupid. They call it
the owl with stars in its eyes.
One stranger sits on the bed beside you.
The contours of his back resemble a real man.
You consider how blindness never breaks
a heart the way seeing does. Snow falls
further. It hits earth & tunnels below.

Ruth Baumann / March - April  2016 Issue