Writing, Saturday Morning

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WRITING, SATURDAY MORNING


“the owl and the hedgehog / shall lodge in her capitals.” —Zeph. 2:14


Even the “O” in “Owl,” then,

might harbor one, chin 

tucked like an oversized chestnut 


or perched in the capital’s crook

as if it were a hollow in a tree. 

This complicates the dialect, you see, 


when even the “T” that inaugurates

this sentence might serve as lookout post

for eyes which pry the dark, 


some enigma we’ll never crack

with our tender hands, our minds. 

If so, what else might we find


havening in our word-hollows

if we sat long enough that they trusted us, 

revealed themselves? Who else?

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