sit up with me till dawn and become such
tepid washed-out words of the crows in their murders
that lone source of sharpness during downy eastern hours.
let us puncture the insulation of the dream-womb to cast
harsh light into our selves
necessarily granting body heat leave to escape and dissolve
same way crow-speak shrinks
into moist absorbent air.
same way their language reverberates
through clinging defiant spider silk droplets.
let this soundbath dampen leaves in tempo with beaked exhalations
the young sun swallows the iterations, our bodies,
as if trying to muffle a hangover
from reveling on the other side of our open world last night.