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

and how

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.


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