The Fields

Out of clouds
flur owls.
White tinder,
tumbling
through the gulf,
black earth
their touch paper.

Lambs sing
and suckle.
Irises shrink,
toss and turn
in their beds.
Night is gnawed
by stags.

The blue moon,
circus girl
with silver studs
and cherry lips,
bares a breast.
The chandelier
hemisphere
pricks with stars,

litters glass
over the fields.
One owl tears
out of its dive,
silently arcs
in suicide
skyward.