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