Crow. Not crack
Raised on bird-gurgle, stray
Tunes shocked on the wave
Of strange mourning. My lobe
Voids the bother of living din
And death; singe presences high
Familiar with the spirit, as banters
A carriage of skins bare, of
Pigment gracious yet untouched
To such seam your keeps
Brave the mellow tension of earth’s dim vault,
Sufferer’s shadow at the eaves,
Heave quiet storms down the weaves
Of street and steam— and as nose drips
The blood of doubt, you brought
Misted song of that infernal cold.
Oh mild tortures rang from annunciations
In circuit, brief advents of home.
And I strode the wind
You therewith bribed, a caress of guests
For the sleep of landlords
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