As a privacy of owls gathers, I have no form for approaching you

Bill Neumire

1. Idiolalia

I           of the old ideal             daily disappear
& here we are              reading Io’s journals
howls turned to lows & canvas oils                 in the trees
here & there                are idols perched Iliads
laid in dahlias                          how will I die
while I owe so much    to crane­-held deus
ex machina      to the idea of day
owls aren’t all eyes      you know—
they are an idle sigh                 a series of numbers
I dial at night               on a retired rotary phone
in the attic I pick          up the phone                sleeping one
                    & speak to you in the old words
we taught each other to survive

2. Lagnolalia

Io, I want to touch your long lie
of almost gone,
          you lost in a lagoon spooning moonlight,
gallons of glow showing you
the sky, its agony
of eyes, its alien lows—for this, loan me a shape
to fit in, a nail to hang my owe.

I want to form
an ology of you
before the owls come, the gang of goons,
(they take so many
shapes) to tear us up for our summer smell­­—
          fuck them

& their mirrory eyes­­–
they are lies they are lies.
I want you & your unquenching
tone, your terrified understanding,
the way you’re a gong
          alone in the vibrating night.