The Crows of Candybar Town
the crows from around here are all from candybar town/ they never sweep the floor or make their beds on the front porch/ the crows sing songs from the seychelles in french/ their lives on the ground in crumbs runs outward, sideways, then up to the tops of trees/ they laugh at dogs and they’ll drink all the gin in the house if you let them in/ they will disguise themselves as salesmen selling vacuums, but in reality, they are the crows/ don’t be fooled/ their whole radiant business is to gossip and spread rumors in the half-lit halls, sewing winter’s gloves when we return to sleep/ we are just the audience who watches crows on wires, and riding the waves above the goldenrod, the fields barely illuminated by the dull yellow light in the barn, and the crumbling centuries, just before the frail among them heads out in flight to nepal/