Here’s the way it was:
a house in a city near the ocean
monstrous rocks jutting out of waves
splashing on what little shore there is.
You would think how lovely
except for the crows,
why not chatter of seagulls,
the black-tipped wings of white pelicans.
But crows? These jutting rocks?
You might think those crows, those rocks—
solid matter, grounding,
but you, behind a veil of water,
tremble violin notes
swelter in the muggy air.
You pack your suitcase to catch the train
only to find you’ve left your book,
the one you’ve written.
And there in the sky, the crows have it,
pick at each other
tear at the pages.
Those crows in the bruised light, that train leaving.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
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