The Impossibility of CrowsAfter shot and wary echo I remember the rhythmic swing of a forgotten bell— whistling rounds off mark. ![]() One bird is sin, two, chance. Three means life. Or luck. Herd watching from the woods, which escapes or finds its way to other guns. ![]() Leaning through recoil into the whispered blade, under prayers of purple meat— we give what we have to give, ![]() and grow accustomed to the vulnerable. Fire of leaves and shed of hanging haunch. Underfoot the shadows talk— ![]() He flays the skin one way, springs bones another. How we are to find ourselves. Gone to town with flesh in paper—heart, liver, loins. ![]() Four is wealth, five, disease. Six makes death. Winter's black wings wrap the sky's body. Winter's beak tucks down the carcass field. ![]() To go down to sleep with crows beside the fresh and kicking soul. The flock is massing. Draw me to a kill. |
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