She comes riding on a raven.
She comes calling like a crow.
The vision in the dishes
soaking in a sink. Steaming
water running out the faucet,
the window half mirror
like dawn or dusk. Her face
bright in the basin of this
unhitched mind, habit taking
off the harness grazing
through the hills of hazy
memory and half forgotten dream,
eyes too bright and sharp
to leave a sight uncut,
this new moon whisper
as the moon fills fecund.
She comes on wings occluded,
she comes on words
spat across the shadows,
there and gone between the breaths.
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