Eyes wild, ringed red, gazing out of the page --
the watcher over the wilderness
does not sleep.
In the forest primeval
there is a glade — the real world
of our filth bleeds in
drop by drop, reddening
the sky, and Öli
witnesses all.
Haunted by apparitions
of fear, figments
coming to presence,
barely corporeal in the dappled sun,
the great owl knows better
than to turn away from the unknown;
The aperture, sealed, was yet
made to be opened, and though
the devil tree, screaming blood, vomiting
anguish into the wastes, was felled
and the blasted heath reclaimed by the forest,
Daring trees grow sparsely
and wither around the gnarled stump
where He who has seen too much
waits, hoping that stupid ******* coyote
does not bring the city back with him
...again
