Sometimes close to sleep under the bedroom’s
beveled wall, though the window
I kept open in all weather but a storm
belted the torture-screech of a witch
at the crushing stone; something like steam
ripped through a narrow hole,
and I knew a rabbit was under the owl’s claw.
No fear to it. Past the foot of the bed
the wooded law dealt quick, leaving only a pelt,
without justice or hate. The blanket’s
weight felt good on my shoulders, quiet closed
in thicker, grape-scented; sleep’s wings swept down in the dark.