Real Wise Owls I prefer whirring Drills to naked ears, than the screeches of someone knowing. But only when joy is stolen by correction. Seeking smiles out with higher vantage points of pretension: Tension forced before illusion. Slick talons ripping into song, like scalpels slicing down pillows, losing hoards of feathers. Falling joy, floating joy- full collections.
This poem is part of a chapbook currently in submissions, Plight Plan.