The Crow And I

in some parts
the wailing of the common crow
can signify hotness and dullness,
and also, hidden in the listless,
parabolic cry a kind of worship
of the time, like wind, that meets itself
in certain hidden spaces throughout our lives—
we look and see ourselves progress,
and with the standards set to mark the
way, we hear the crow; sadly, dourly,
slow swinging the pendulum, the
interfolding spectacle of our treading—
the crow glides, and has no need of
looking back—it never strives or
meditates, only lends us sense of our
own mortality—we look, and see the
effortless way it enters, only ever
half-observed, like rumour, but brazen in
its shadowed centre is the force that
guides it restlessly, its
entelechy—it produces in the
homesick observer the uneasy feeling of
abstraction—of being at once too early and
too late to view the sum of their
inordinate meetings—the crow and I—
a mereology of
feeling makes the common crow the mystical
implement of gods who want the
smoke disguising this sad splendour—
constancy, immediacy, the untraceable, chaotic
straightness of our chosen path—
to clear at last, at once, this single moment,
and for us to look and see the cord—
crow’s slow mourning,
eternity.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

 

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