Inquiry into Owls

CJ Evans


As the dead fish gather
in their last congregation

at the quay, as the dry
hives shiver

the leafless trees,
as the ghosts rustle,

voiceless, in the potter’s
field, the sound grows.

There’s so much noise
in all this crass business,

in the creaking weight
of the dark tools,

I can no longer hear
the worthwhile elegies,

the ones spoken
by those who rise

and risk another
deafening day to whisper

their lost one’s name,
if only for them to hear.