Hunting for
positively any redemptive
epigraph I could uncover
and still not finding one
after half an hour—I start
to fear it's useless,
that I'm all on my
own on this one—
the debauched page
billowing, pulsing
with menace like a soiled
padded room—unless
those two crows—perched
on a cornice, and cawing
over the grayblue confusion
of the street after sunrise
with a glee that's
unusually magisterial—
were to suddenly
achieve perfect enlightenment,
swoop down
from their neo-Gothic
roof crown, and rescue this
tortured sentence.
