The Beatles reflect a false moon in the corner of my eye

and my lost bearings howl at every turn I take

 

following a serpent’s twin lies where each red orbed perjury

bewilders an already complicit route

 

while skeletal birds yellow, buried in the sky

riding the rain like obstreperous Valkyrie

 

but what of this owl which silently splashes

through a fusing night of mild rebuke?

 

“are you lost?” I ask of the verecund wraith

as it circles under amber frost

 

its  silence lay, beyond compelling,

in the eloquence of it’s vanishing boast

 

when the night falls I always wonder

did it trip or was it pushed?