The night before,
I paced London’s streets
sparkling and fizzing with ideas
the pills used to dull and destroy.
I felt awake, alive.

And so I went into the owl.
 
Eyes, green as moss,
darken to black. Oak tassels
spell-woven to feathers.

You notice the nose: webbed veins spritzed
with little flicks of red, purple blotches
daubed with a palette-knife, broken ends
where blood-vessels gave up the ghost.

Fascinated by the priest’s teeth I don’t realise
I’m kicking the pew in front with a restless foot
until someone taps me sharply on the knee.

In Italian I have no inner life.
With no past or future tense
My needs are immediate.

rose is thirsty
rose senses water
rose root rummages in the earth
rose root punctures lung and frontal lobe
rose stem is a green straw sucking

Pigeons have invaded the garden, two then four, then a flock.
They roost in the apple tree to nest, reconnoitre or mate
 
ignore my sorties to deter them and shit without stint
on patio and herb bed, foul lovely hyssop and thyme.

What matters now is the feast of this survival.
The glory of our own light, black light.
 
Look at us: the deeper the root, the sweeter the juice.
Glory of the blacker berry, split wide open to the sun.