A great raven squats
on a green dumpster
behind the meat market.

Its black is blacker
than anything near to the earth,
a thick hang-nail beak blackest,

more than the pitch-black in its eyes.
"Click-clock, click-clock," I cluck at the bird
who ruffles his feathers, staring right through me,

then one cluck gets in, and he ***** his head
to watch my tongue, a pink hatchling squirming
away from a stabbing. He waits for scraps,

gristle to choke down; a deviant bird
who pokes out your eye if you simply stare
a little too long: "The plane is alive;

it is born. Each form is a world."
A supreme semaphore, a whistle,
a croak, a hop and a squawk.