Denise Bickford




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.