Silhouette
a crow lands
outside my window,
insect in
its beak, swallows and parts
the morning
with its caw, caw, caw.
a crow never
wants to be a rooster.
a crow is
what it is, it never dreams
of anything
else. all of our striving
we are
hungry for the carrion
of our
bodies, to bring us closer
to our
untimely death, and the crow
will be
there, not to wake us like
a rooster,
but to crow as a crow crows,
to warn that
worms will bite,
that even
the flies will sting.
a crow knows
what we taste like
without
pecking our bones clean;
we taste
like a grub, those cut-worms
that burrow
into squash roots then
shed their
old body into a new body
leaving the
remains mixed in the earth.
a crow knows
the smell of us
when we are
close to that border,
the in
between when we are
no longer a
body, but not yet its food,
but when we
are moving from human
to ylem, our
atoms shifting into
our next phase.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment