by Scott Owens

Two doves,
or one,
and a spot on my window
ride the winded wire,
one, spreading its wings
from time to time
to stay on top,
the other, absolute
in its ideal sense
of balance,
needing no wings,
and going nowhere.

by Scott Owens

They split the light
that filters in
through empty panes,
stretching shadows
longer than tails
across the page
I’m reading or the wall
I’m staring at
unable to fathom
its depth, or just
the empty air,
filled at last
with some shade of life.