After long journeys
I came to a yellow room.
Cream-colored, actually,
but the sun was on the walls.
And a shadow too,
a vague silhouette
of slatted blinds and
a man in a fedora
hat.
Head and torso and
hat, in a raked, rapacious
perspective. Nose
like Dick Tracy's,
like the Silver Streak, like
chrysanthemum petals
dipped in snow. What
was he looking at?
2.
Sunset,
the crows
come back,
black fruit
to the
tree—
3.
their quills
the green of
garbage bags,
or oil on a
puddle, or mice
under punched-
out eyes—
4.
next to invisible except
under hard inspection.
Nothing to see from here
except their shadows
on the sky, but that
is enough to inveigle
attention sometimes. The
clients drone. Crows convene
Like this only in winter. It
is the season of no
mating and pickings
next to nothing: bones
from McBurger's; jelly
from a squirrel that
didn't look both ways.
Hungry happy chilly little
neighbors, those crows. One
regards the next, and the next
the next, and so on, to
oblivion.
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