Landing all
in a terrible rush,
as if forcibly
pushed by the host
out of heaven,
the gaunt crow overtakes
the gilded autumn field
whose resplendent view I'd
been admiring while walking.
Make the most of this
false show of pigment—
his coal eye
and flinty beak twitch
to suggest—
for we both know
when those everlasting sea-
bottom-black nights
are due back—and you,
ever so much bleaker
than I am on the inside,
will likely need all
of the gold
you can get.
