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Crow realizes he’s mostly empty space
Allowances have to be made, he thinks,
given the possibility of water.
So, the morning is spent gathering
buckets, rusty old cans, a dog’s bowl,
anything he can find and stuffs them
beneath his perch in the off chance
that bits and parts will wash away.
But what about light, the red sun
and its tongue forever seeking shadows
in order to carve out a new yearning?
All afternoon, he collects cardboard,
scraps of wood, even broken branches
and builds a great wall about himself.
In the distance, a blackbird cries,
a goat wanders closer from a nearby farm,
and Crow thinks others are not me.
What about lovers, or objects—acorns,
half-eaten apples, straws, and words, too,
moving from one mouth to another.
He dares not think about time, the moment’s
slip and drip. Evening is spent
cementing his skin. Of course,
it rained all night, and he flew back
and forth draining the flotsam and
jetsam of words and things that seeped inside.
With what else do you fill a life?
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