Come crow, come black wing, just leave me my dreams. The day can only go on so long. There is no ghost on the radio. There are barely any gods in the wind. The kicked-up dust or the coming downpour, the work is all the same. Eat when hungry, sleep when worn. Such a stodgy old dharma beat down all these years. The promise all dried up, it still rains on my bones. Call down the day, cough up the dusk. Measure me a little treat, and I will cleave the time.
Sweep away the day with black wings and jagged songs, break everything down to shards and scraps. The full moon coughs up light enough for the journey. Everything wandering to every place that stays. We burn the day to bless tomorrow. Our crowded altars sizzle and drip. The stars slipped and slid, slim purchase upon the dizzy firmament. Fixed distance and broken cues. The clue of clock and calendar, the proof of leaf and cloud.
The cock crows thrice beneath a full moon, the spell is broken. The cock crows more, another spell is set. I keep the time, adrift upon this gentle tide. I watch the signs, turned yet again towards the coming day. The west obscures and the east reveals you. Sunlight kisses each forbidden limit, traffic stumbles down every avenue, cars seep out every street. There is a train at last in the distance. The whistle trails, it pitches and wails. Stretched against the world's sweet side you listen for these words I have left you. You read these words and you hear a crow.