weaved
whose eyes have seen the curling opalescence of the crow
whose eyes needled blue have
been the haven of the crow
whose eyes have been paved and paced with winglessness
whose eyes a hundred trees tall and deep whose eyes are full of cut threads neglected
from nests
whose eyes beheld a darkness in beaked guidance whose eyes grew a voice
the crow could not understand the crow could not understand or who selectively neglects
those threads without a shine bastard bird
you’ve seen whose eyes the hemlocked fir
disappears in dilation.
Glint Literary Journal 