I grew accustomed to lying in the dark,
the way you learn to love wearing
the clothes that fit you well, hands folded
over stomach, the skin just above the navel
exposed like an offering to the crow you've just
noticed--with a glint in his eye, his open beak,
his perch like a messenger at your window,

'What are you waiting for?' you ask.
"I'm not waiting for anything.
Why
are you?" he says,
turning away. "the light will eventually fade

with or without you.
take your paintbrush, your cloak,
walk into oblivion.

they found your inkwell at the foot of the sky.

Oh, and there might be a sign that says,
to beware of falling objects?
in the dark it's safe enough

to travel with your eyes closed. Just
walk until they're open."