Who are these winged visitors
into whose thousand eyes
we dare not look?
One alights on the unfinished poem
one marches across the open book.
Is this the messenger
from thin air who brings
the lens so long awaited
focused on Being
purified of Things?
Last night one hesitated
between the lamp
and my alpine pillow
coming in soundlessly to land
on the white sheet.
Before my mind could follow
a weapon huge
as an acre of hot meat and bone
crushed his antennae
his angelic wings.
Surely this murderous hand
was not my own.