Poems are ravens, not as Poe
Cast them, but as Clare
And Skaife conceived them,
The “dark, recording angels”
Of sunken recollections.
Imagine them gathering
In the quietest canyons
On a dry day, dullest grey,
Less steel and silver
Than lead and pewter,
Birds turning into shadows
With something to say.
Numbers never answer why
Every sin’s in the right place.
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