“It’s too late to escape the hive
mind. It has always been too late!”
Influence cracks you like an egg,
you weak, weak being. “Oh forgive

me, lord forgive me I am proud
and I want to have my own things.
My work will not last, but I want
to speak in a language I have

made out of myself. The trouble
being that I am made of words
which I did not make. Oh lord, strike
out all words I did not author.

Erase history from language
with a pureness, and make me spark
with a creativity that
is greater than yours, a hot spark

that spews out works and words as if
at random. But make it all me.
Make everything me, make the hive
bow before me. Make it listen.”

Are you okay? You seem a bit
worked up. I’m sorry I don’t know
what you are saying. Do you speak?
Passerby, do you speak language

Crow Absolved

The feather pile in the bin moans
I say, it’s okay, you Crow.
It’s okay. Sleep now.
A last few syllable caws come –
“I’m saw-ree” and I am exhausted by
the real difficulty of innocence
almost impossible
but just

With a faint clinking
the bird bones roll in the wind
taking up shapes
and finally gusting off as sand
dissolving into heaven
or whatever there is

God is there with me in a wheelchair
and Dove,
and we all three cry
for the darkness
and the beauty
and the coldness that has come.

Dove has the last word.
She writes in the sand with her branch