Crow Mouth

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This is not the way to live. In the morning, the crow is coughing at the side of your bed. You feed him honey. He got in, got undressed, got down to his feathers and beak for you, brought sin, brought glory. Got up for water, for waiting, for watching you from across the room. He is delicate and bare-boned, like the limbs of a tree out in the winter all by itself, standing somehow on rooted feet chewed up. By crows, by time. The blanket is woven, watered down, white as a moony night. The feet of the crow have decorated the down, lit your morning, reminded you that you must decipher between sleeping and waking, between the real things found in your bed with you and the bones that you buried beneath. Ghosted wings, skeleton wings, seeping from your mouth and teeth. These are your wet memories. They will dry they will not bleed.