Until you give the thing a name, nothing’s there—
You’ll make it as you shape the word, as I do here,
Aware. I’m not telling you how to think or see
The crown of thorns formed by the tongue’s decree,
So full of pattern the pattern’s lost—
A mark of martyrdom, a song of praise:
A paean or irregular cry—yet it can be a cloak
Or a cover, a blinding with the banal familiar. Savor
The beat of the line, stroke of the pen or key: Say,
“Crow,” and a it’s a miracle or mystery—a
Crow appears, a gift in a word from me to you.
The crow appeared, dipped a shoulder,
Fanned his tail, and lighted lightly on the rail.
He cocked his head at the rustle in the grass,
Hopped to the ground, a picture of green
Under black. The sun was lost in the gloss
Of his back as he nudged aside the blades
With his beak, precise and neat, then he
Turned to me his lidded eye and leapt
Away, aware that my seeing him was a dangerous
Making, he all hunger and seeking,
Me all contrast and shaping.
