A crow settles in at the bar,
and tells one crow story after another,
all hard as his beak.
He scatters out corn, brass cartridges, a penny,
blue glass, a car key, and a ring.
He orders a beer, using it to chase down
shots of dark glances.
Around midnight the crow flies over us,
out of the bar and into all-consuming night.
I take out a match and drag it slowly
over a bed of sulphur, like a scar dragged
over the butt of an old wound.
The match fire could be anyone’s self-hesitancy.
“All I need now,” I tell her, “is sleep,
and a place to keep it.”
“Get away from me,” she said.
“Maybe when you’re gone I can pray.”
--Greg Grummer
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