Say two crows at dusk in an auburn sky.
But which is the augury of which? Or then
a cottonmouth slipping like ripe fruit into the reeds.
Our ribs feeling as hollow as a stream bed.
As though there is nothing else: just this excavated
dullness. The tongue and mouth like small,
decaying animals. And the crows, no longer
in their bodies in the darkness, filling the air
with cries that ripple like small waves along
a water’s surface, a last breath. We formed
ourselves from mud and blood and spittle. From an old
ceiling of sky. The broken spine of ridge coupling
with swollen clouds. The bitternut hickory shedding
its sorcery of leaves into the stream. And so the stars
bobbing like body parts amid a dim ocean of clouds.
Until there is nothing left, not even the crows
darting through the air like dreams. You sleepwalk
into it. The moon sealing itself to the lip of the earth.