breath—slowed down— two closed eyes, times three billion six fans ticking round three clocks, four beats slow due to moon. one moon twenty-nine and a half views. one whole—yellow or white or rose or blue— one disappearance, the rest broken as an open mouth mid-snore. seven million golden-eyed owls who knows their countless sound? a rustle and scatter of leaves death equals dinner sometimes— grass, string, feather—sometimes fire multiplies by lightening meeting ground ten thousand times makes a complex smoke seeps through cracks swallows stop singing—a little ache in the throat— plus the odd dose of dread elsewhere, but close, an ocean pulled infinite— waves give themselves to shore.
Twila Newey received her M.F.A. in Writing and Poetics from Naropa. You can find her poems at Radar Poetry and Juxtaprose Magazine, among others. “Sylvia”, her first novel, was published this year. Twila is a poetry editor for Psaltry & Lyre. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.