Second Crow

Day, you

and then the eve of the evening.

From the balcony, sliced light

leaves behind an arm.

Shadow,

in which you for bleeding chrissake put yourself out.

You look through the glossy-black,

see into the continual flux,

churning up

inside outside side-to-side;

an effluent running river,

insect-filled,

and one truncated tree—

no square in which to sleep;

you write a brief note.

Change it.

Classic, you think,

as you slide

by means of the motion

in downing the fingers.