all night while owls tap at the window
sending Morse love poems to Athena.
They know I don't trust the air--not since Athena left.
I wear this bulky space suit everywhere, even into my dreams.
A fixer with a burlap bag gathered the owls and brought them back,
along with window glass, some putty, and a frame.
Now my lungs discuss the view, plan pilgrimages, and pointedly exclude me.
Athena loved the poems I could breathe out at will,
but wearied of my ladder collection and habit of communicating only by hieroglyph.
Now everything is lungs, owls,
night, space suits,
and the stilling of the back door still redolent
with Athena's scent and the trackless void of my own exhalations.
_____
(belatedly cos my I was off the grid) for Sunday Muse #79.
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