The Calculus of Owls / Sarah Gardner

$ 7.00


 What Writing Is

Quiet thoughts grow crowless. Silver rustle,
floodline spindle. Finally, the water

faces itself: a rock glossed naked where
the current parts, storehouse of a broken peak.

Every tree here is a locked box, every thorn
a collar buttoned to the top, and yet

among the mosses: wild garlic, thyme.
Being conversant, I know all exchanges

begin on the tongue. Being human, I want
a taste. I have been along the nettled bank

and so have seen beneath the canopy, where
wasps pit their young in a paper hurricane

dry as a pharaoh’s heart a thousand years
in an earthen jar. None so born grow on honey.