Saturday, March 12, 2011

Hey Crow

      I’m a stringer
between leafless trees
in a Minneapolis
ice grey morning.
They struggle, yet
hold their own
between flour mill
ancient factories.

from 8th and down
the dead alley, I notice
abrasive brick sliding slow
beneath my touch,
so far removed
from the feel of skin.

      If I could write
to you, I’d wax poetic
on streamers of industrial
white reaching for the skies,
and that lone crow
in our loading dock
eyeing me with  
      mild interest.

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