You are telling me the image isn’t possible—
I say I’ve made it so; this is a world the color of snow:
He fluffs and preens on a birch branch, bold
As his blue-black brothers. There was no blood
Orange before I held one in my hand, is no moon
Until it rises. A raven is black / A raven is pink. . .
A schism with my understanding of myself,
With the Raven I had, by sustaining, sustained.
