"black crow comes to me
perched in an apple tree"
-children’s rhyme.


he stands alone in a parking lot
great arms spread, feet far apart

the gray sky fills with stabs of black
as messengers group in spiral webs

then each drops shimmering to rest
upon his shoulders, arms and head

he lifts within this glint of wings
they ascend to fill the heavy air

as thunder cracks and lightening rips
the churning globe of sky apart

and endless suns and countless stars
descend to rest at last within

the space behind what's left of him
and all that was and never been

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Sometimes, things just won't work the way we want them to.