The crow calling loudly outside
the front window is the same
crow hopping through buds and
blossoms about the boughs of
the front yard tree reaching towards
the bright blue cool spring sky
stretching itself a path to the sun.
Those black wings warning everyone
heaven is farther than it looks.
Like the shape we call a star
marked like art across the firmament,
it flies spirals down the skin
sight applies to the puzzle,
the mess the mystery makes of the map
the raw knees where the road
touches rhetoric sharp
jostling the gossip
memory makes
the click clack of bones
off track, every vision
a dare to look away.
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