The Common Crow

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The Common Crow

What more, really,
can be said
about the common

crow? Lover of bright
objects,
Agent and omen

of death. They
play,
hoard, gather,

count and caw.
Roost
by the millions

and never NEVER
NEVER!
are ravens (note,

please, the wedge-
vs. fan-
shaped tails).

And murder
don’t
even go there.

But this, friend,
know—
an open window

invites the cunning
crow
to drop pebbles

in the shining still
waters
of your soul,

till your spirit
rises
and the short-

billed Corvus
slakes
his terrible thirst.

Forget Me Nots

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Forget Me Nots

At my age, memory
becomes
a codger’s crowded

mantle. Ball jars
brim
with marbles—

slags, agates,
patches,
swirls of oxblood

in milky white,
crystals
pocked and rough

as the cratered moon.
Castoff
utility insulators

form like men in
God’s
reunion regiment

of afterthought
blue.
The vintage ceramic

planter, Little Miss
Muffet,
morphs into desk supply—

pen and pencil
catchall,
notes and Post-its

nearby—but a long-legged
spider
already crawls

the fading Miss’s
yellow
dress, her heart-shaped

mouth an open
glyph
of blindsided surprise.