A brave concourse of crows,
and beyond a clotted mess
of branch and wire begins
the thaw of darkness; light
in the standing pools of the sky.
I would not begin to say
what raw, scraped arms might circle me,
what lips might brush my ears and
tell me this or that, take up maybe
the selfsame topic that so moves the corvidary:
but I know the day begins with women
heaving red earth
and hauling themselves out of quick-dug graves.
Their skin is painted with the clay of sleep,
but their eyes are licked clean:
they glow like flaws
in the glass of old windows catching the sun.