CROWS

Crows

scratch

the

wind,

 

scratch

in

wind

voices,

 

in

raspy

voices

tearingly.

 

Raspy

and

tearingly,

confusion

 

and

warmth—

confusion

confounds.

 

Warmth

sometimes

confounds

deleterious,

 

sometimes

fills

deleterious

up,

 

fills

full

up

within.

 

Full

makes

within

light,

 

makes

even

light

sleepy.

 

Even

one

sleepy

conundrum,

 

one

old

conundrum

hollows

 

old

wounds,

hollows,

feels.

 

Wounds

never

feel

entirely,

 

never

go

entirely

fictitious,

 

go

like

fictitious

resounding,

 

like

dead

resounding

miracles.

 

Dead

unheard

miracles

germinate;

 

unheard

they

germinate

underground.

 

They

tell

underground

everything,

 

tell

how

everything

meanders,

 

how

wild

meanders

grow.

 

Wild

we

grow

distinct,

 

we

the

distinct

crows.