Nulla Dies Sine Linea

A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his

one joke. And now, nearer, a murder

answers, chortling from the pale hill’s brow.

From under my lashes’ wings they stretch

clawed feet. There the unflappable years

perch and stare. When I squint, when I

grin, my new old face nearly hops

off my old new face. Considering what’s flown,

what might yet fly, I lean my chin

on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.