At noon a ghost begins threading darkness
through a needle’s eye then stitches it all
like a field sprouting on lightning, all blind
after the light. Raindrops chase every crow
across the holler. One of the crows believes
I’m a real ghost, the one who steals the sky
from its wings, the one jimmying doors
inside a cloud and walking off with its wings.
I paint its wings blue and red. I paint its feathers
like needles. The light pours in like storms
jostling the crow’s voice deep into my own.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 4.
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