What I mean is, I have walked far enough
into the woods to forget my own feet. I am
barefoot. The snow is cold. The crow is eating
berries that are not berries but eyes.
I hope they are mine.
Okay, okay, what I mean is
I can’t help but cry when a crow cuts
through the sky, it can be blue or
it can be grey, and I’m crying
when I see plastic in the sleek beak
also cutting through the sky,
plastic edges ripping us all open
wide. Drown me crow,
under streetlights and
granite rock and the bulk
of your own body. I’m willing
to be the sacrifice.
