Peter Burzynski
A Talon, a Sword, a Grave Look at the Sun
All the crows have died
where I live. The ravens
have taken over with heavy
beaks shaped by heavy
tongues. Where I live there
still aren’t icicles
in the sky, but the bricks
have been perfected.
We now use gases
in kites, shards of glass
in acorns, a pepper shake
of asbestos in ties.
The ravens will go on
fighting, a soft armadillo
will look to the sun
and fry. Crunch, crunch
keep biting past the eyes,
crunch, crunch. Cream—
the snow packed tight.
Don’t look to the sky
for answers, it’s a broken snow
globe, a fettered canvas
for the rays of the sun. Crumbs
of you have fallen, you have
fallen, but there are saints
and solicitors that will help
you focus now, the ravens
are reforming a blockade.
