When I stand in a lane lit by streetlight & crescent
what is my vanishing point?  

When I know the pinprick luminescence I see
is from dead stars, do I vanish?  

When temples & churches perch like red-
shouldered hawks on thin shadowed lots
between car dealers & cell towers
is that the moment?  

When a new moon casts its deep onyx, erasing
hill & house, will I vanish then?  

Or will I vanish with the tiger owl as she turns
her head to regard me with moon-embroidered
eyes & face like a cinnamon disc—                                                
                                                    will I live in her                                                
                                                    feathers so like                                                
                                                    the bark of pines                                                
                                                    that are no more?    

~inspired by Maria Brzozowska’s “Vanishing Point”