To My Most Secret Audience

I am held together
By paper-
A thousand shredded drafts
Bound spiral for a page.
Every day,
Ink smuggled
Into song,
Smudging
The smoke of words.
Whispers
From the lips
Of languages.
I slip about,
Under brushes-
Skin shuffled
Like a snake.

My eyes are a voice
Down corridors
Of mirrors.
Someone appears there,
Speaking back-
Sometimes it is you.
Sometimes it is myself.
Like the two owls last night
With great white wings
Opened wide,
Chasing each other
About the dark
With a calling
Made of bells.