From streetlamp wrought and rusted
A crow lulls in ornate
nesting
A singular toll from that
solitary haunt
Her scalpel mouth
dissecting the night
And her wings’ breadth
summoning the soul
From her chest casting
silhouette morph
A man vacated of heaven
and hell
Leaning his heart against
a history of oak
She speaks for him from
the space between her ribs
Where reeded wind hollows
a song of moon-fire myth
And the pact with time
tunnels at his heels
With centipede sitar and
beetle back timpani
Echoing his rise in the
crow’s thundering leave
E.A. O'Connell
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