Let me look at you, fretsaw —
you seem to cut a shadow-shape
in every linden you light in.

You are beautiful — beautiful?
You are static, thetic, emphatic,
Owl: the witchery that is wound

in you is subscription, it’s wishing
that man might grow into your
bearing, might be unwinding

without the slightest move —
we made a totem. I keep your fey
feather in a tall cloche. Owl,

you are inky, uncanny. In grasses
you quarter and rend like mesh,
the vole has accused you of music.

Joseph Spece is editor at Sharkpack Poetry Review. His first book of poems, Roads, was published in 2013.