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Crow Gospel


Jami Macarty

How disastrous to operate under the revelation of a mysterious index finger.
We trumpet ourselves to the readers. An achieved form
by the mask and language act. We permit this flamboyance
while appealing for guidance to comprehend the unfeigned world beyond the corner.
These abeyances, the shrugged shoulders, the saga of our appalling
adolescences, the critique served with each family supper.
The daughter with her bones showing. The son
trying to live through the end. How dubious the sunshine
when we take no heed. We shun this whitish bulb. Our unturning
head to the pedestrian we recognize continues
our self-extinction, as midnight burgeons around us sightless and unseen
during important nightmares. A degenerate’s blade
howling ancestry to the masculine. Individuals are continents
without sadness, but risk shattering into the great mirror of the ocean.
Halting the walk, making us swim again.

The crows doing their jig on the beach tip their dark sails to the wind—
They are still lifting off.