Let me look at you, fretsaw —
you seem to cut a shadow-shape
in every linden you light in.

You are beautiful — beautiful? —
You are static, thetic, emphatic,
Owl: the witchery that is wound

in you is subscription, it’s wishing
that man might grow into your
bearing, might be unwinding

without the slightest move —
we made a totem. I keep your fey
feather in a tall cloche. Owl,

you are inky, uncanny. In grasses
you quarter and rend like mesh,
the vole has accused you of music.