The Owl in the Mask of the Dreamer

Nothing bestial or human remains

in all the brass and tin

that we strike and break and weld.

Nothing of the hand-warmed stone

made flesh, of the poured heat

filling breast, belly, and thigh.

The craft of an old affection

that called by name the lion shape

of night, gave rain its body

and the wind its mouth—the owl

in the mask of the dreamer,

one of the animal stones asleep…

By tinker and by cutting torch

reduced to a fist of slag,

to a knot of rust on a face of chrome.

So, black dust of the grinding wheels,

bright and sinewy curl of metal

fallen beneath the lathe:

Speak for these people of drawn wire

striding toward each other

over a swept square of bronze.

For them the silence is loud

and the sunlight is strong.

No matter how far they walk

they will never be closer.