after “The White Horse” by Yasunari Kawabata In the low light…
Crow Song
Wet pavement rides the ridges
up to where the forest breaks
like hair when the taut newness
of a scar writes that desire
is black feathers caught
in the heads of dried goldenrod,
that grief’s blue lines run over hands
and between knuckles, that death,
after rain, leaks its sweet smell
through the river of your teeth.