it doesn’t matter
how hard the wind blows tonight
or how low the clouds
have become.

i have managed to be
merely a spectator,
examining my palms
like the sky's underside.

i follow with my eyes
a single struggling crow
the wind pushing her, she
flies aimless.

does she find home
accidentally where she is
or does she follow like you and i,
streets and paths,
resisting with her voice the blowing,
with her wings the storm crawling over her?


it doesn’t matter
how quiet the evening will become,
or when the ringing
of the great bells commence.

all of this is subject to
a slow meticulous turning.

for i will be
tethered by and
foolish to possession.

and you who possesses me,
will occupy hallways and rooms
and read the epistles
and read the psalter
and turn blue stars
to rigorous mystery,
re-imagined as ****** birth.


it doesn't matter
the thickness of the wall
you are surround by.

they can no more
be penetrated
in neither ease nor ache
then i can pierce the thick
moonless veil of your clothes.

and you who challenged me
to gentleness, will gently slip
out of reach,

and we both know
that the call to vespers will come,
and when it does,
you will send me from you
and i will be like the crow.