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Thursday, April 12, 2018

from a Crow series (eleven-ish)

once a woman built a crow 
the size of a horse 
when she climbed upon the roof of her 
horsecrow she could touch 
stars made 
from sparklers and the burnt tips 
of her fingers loosed 
a world known before 
only from inside certain brick- 
shack puppymills near lititz


in the locust the siblings
chatter. it is a dying 
tree and art—this branching fellowship 
among judges. they never 
agree until they do, then hasten 
to deliver one
chorus, one sentence, divided
for consumption by each 
diligent sinner—die, die.       
that is: you, me.

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