All black, a hard dark
spot, it sits in the tree’s
bare arms. Caw! Caw!
it calls to no one.
Again, too rude: Caw!
The truth is out:
it eats dead things.
It knows that want
can make, unmake
a world as much as love,
love’s awful opposite.
And so, once more,
the terrible syllable: Caw!
And then it lifts
its wings and flies
into a world diffuse,
green, and blameless,
leaving a bright spot
of nothing where it sat.
One oily feather
in slow free fall,
a bruised blue-black
iridescence,
is all that’s left.
But still I hear it: Caw!
An ugly crow perched
in the charred chest
has left, knowing,
what does it know?
That the word
at the bottom of
the world is black.
I will not say it,
but pray that crow
not come back.
BRUISE
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