which we never
knew existed,
a river must be
standing still—
since
its prophet
(this impetuous carrion
crow, to be specific)
has chosen
not to fly there, but instead,
just to sit
on this power line
suspended over the street
like a knife blade,
pointing down here
with his craggy beak
and laughing
at all of our paltry
attempts
to wear black.
