the owl :: bruce guernsey

This morning, half way up
a snow-packed hill,
I spotted an owl
on a branch at the top.

Out of breath, I stopped,
watching it turn
at the crunch of my step.
In the cold, staring back,

the hangman’s eyes,
the holes in his hood,
watching me climb,
coiling the slack.

the seeing-eye dog :: bruce guernsey

sneaks out nights,
cool in beret,

his master’s dark glasses,
sips cointreau

at the dog cafe,
and watches;

is the poet of dogs
with a voice that sees

for the man who can’t,
that speaks the meaning

of red, of green;
is the loneliest dog

at the dog cafe
where hounds down suds

and the barking
is loud.