A hawk talks in whispers to her in her sleep.
I arrive to shoo away the devil so that I
may be left alone to enter her through her
skin of gaping ears to thrill at the magic spells
I have composed in books committed to memory.
The bird flies through the wall of the room
and alights at the stone edge of a fountain.
There in the moonlight that has slipped past
the leaves of the overhead bower he musingly
regards larvae flipping about the stagnant water;
dips his beak to grab one and fly off with it
squirming his dry avian tongue; spits it out
and lets it drop when in midair he realizes
that it might be a parasite and his constitution
does not abide those. The larva plummets
with a deadening thud and a liquid shudder
from the surface through the pool. She says:
“Your presence is blinding.” I am captivated
by you. I give my hand in faith it will be returned
fortified and masculine. Guide me through
the dells of dream, training grounds for moving
in awareness only of the calls of birds and winds.