What Raven Steals
Black wires sag under ravens,
save for the occasional trickster
hanging upside down.
She wraps her fingers tightly around
a blue and black wire.
She wears a navy blue dress
and a wide-brimmed straw hat
that hides her hair.
He settles in a tree,
claws hooked on a branch, stares
right at the girl. Ahead, islands
of dark pines, to the left, open sky
a cognitive strangeness occurs,
as when the artist leaves
space empty. Hath not black birds
power on thee to save?
Could be, says one of these giant
language-using ravens, around us wiry
ghost bodies strung upside-down
in caliginous treetop tents.
Despite occasional irreverence,
she has you lying down under a thick
moss duvet, asks if you need a doctor,
yet crying to be saved.
I would speak in tongues of red, white,
pearly blue-blacks: The crack in
everything lets tricksters play a word
all capsized, upside down.
It would have been convenient
if a great raven had crowed at that,
closing in on this place, and cast
its black shadow.
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