Through the Eye of a Crow

Crow Dance

Waddling the apple of the
earth
he pecks
and steps
and pecks
and cocks his head.

A small black radar
set to hear faint echoes
of a primal bang,
the bubbling of
quantum foam
the rising of a movement in
the worm.

He blocks his own thoughts first
then blocks the thoughts
of men
and animals
and birds
all living things
and then the high-low whistle
of the train,
revving cars,
distant thoughts,
small stone memories.

His yellow eye
is falling in a trance.

His breath
a frozen snowflake in the air
waits and hangs
in
space.

And then he hears the
movement of the worm.
He steps
and pecks
and stops
and pecks
again.

He beats
a crow beak-crow feet
strange rain dance
to call the worm
and when it comes
remembers his mistake.

This time he does not peck
the worm in two:
the woman
and
the man.

This time he seeks no
knowledge from the worm.
Nothing is created
from this call
except at hole
that crow
can look
into

except a large worm hole
a hole that fits his eye
his yellow eye
that stares through
space and time

that rides the surfboard
of an ancient foam

a yellow staring eye
that learns the secrets of
some far off place
and brings them back.

He holds the watcher
with his staring eye
his pupil opens up a large
black hole
that sucks my senses in to see
those far off things
to share the numbing sorrow
of his watch.

He pecks the frozen field of
feathered ground
a car park covered in an
angel’s frost and iron stone.

We wonder why the
Wormhole starts to eat
as knowledge of the crow
eats us alive
we wonder why
the wormhole starts to eat.

Julie Boden