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.  

 

 

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