the wind sweeps in from out
crow’s wing brushes whisper across the forehead
they’re falling now
a
couple more
funneled
into sluice gates and caught
before a
finality is realized –
every so often you feel the wing brushing close
like a scythe whistling through
the air
you wonder what gets harvested
what
blackness
or
searing light
who
the dark becomes
blinding
whiteout
and
why
is it time
and is all this collateral
or is this a target
a morning is cruel, or it is not
a night is harrowing, or it is not
the world is pain, or it is not
the is and is not of wildly intersecting planes
flashing crazed like the eye blinks
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