A crow landed on the rail.

 

One for sorrow.

 

Swept down from the perimeter

mounted the metal siding off the road

and stood for a second on its perch.

 

Took a quick lick of his head

to spot the murder.

To move on.

 

It could have been less.

 

Id left the mess of people,

my head spinning with time spent

disconnected

fragile

futile

Looking at my watch

 

When the clock ticks a second more

It will be a good time to go.

 

The bird inked in

Like the splattering of drops

From a quill

The still minute

Of blackness.

 

Deeper than death.

Than of night.

 

My pupil clicked

A photograph

To etch the still

 

And in the split,  

The crack in the pavement,

The brittle line.

The divide between

your real and mine.

I lost myself in the absence of light.

In the slick covering

Of a second skin

A membrane

Of crude oil

And the exhaust smoke from the road

Kept it all in.

 

At the party of people

I skated straight round

the circles

formed with false laughter

Desperation.

Fluid,

I made my way for the door.

 

The second hand said I didn’t have to take any more

 

The crow,

he landed just to state

I am always welcome in the black.

 

On the stoop

Or on the gate

Beneath trees

 

For we are always one

 

And if im lonely

I hear you call

 

From the murder.