by David Ackley


Distantly, two crows unlatch from a high pine

passing thought of crow on the pallid sky.


The top twigs make up-ended t's

or featherless birds hung in flight.


Attention nests in the gaps

They lure us,

Sentras to sinkholes.


In March hone bayonet and harrow

blood inspires the corn.


I see well enough your death

but your life

swallows itself whole


You vanish like a crow at night