October, before it had
a name. Still, though, a month of
low iron skies and protracted
sulks and cold rain and bursts
of crisp radiance that never
lost their ability to
dazzle and surprise.
A flash of revelation
even as the hammer fell:
We will miss this world
when it’s gone, or
when we are.
Same difference.
The crow, I’ve been told,
spoke first in the New World,
gave the truth its first
utterance. And the truth it
spoke was as blunt as
it was timeless: Hey,
numbnuts, it said.
Hey, hey.
Look here.
Listen up.
Here I am,
and there
you are.