old gravestone. I see the busted-up sustenance
that got you through those long years, left over
in your cracked marble made grey with grime.
I can count what I know on one hand. Death; there’s one.
Love is another. I love the crows that hang around here.
They’re far humbler than you and I; they’ll eat food off the road
and get out of the way of cars, and they won’t mind.
They’re smaller than ravens, but they hang around the outskirts and don’t complain.
Their eyes are little coals in the middle of all those sun-charred feathers,
and their beaks are little obsidian knives that cut to the heart of it.
You know what I’m talking about; the death thing,
that hangs around the outskirts of our minds that take themselves too seriously.
That’s the thing about crows; they’ll laugh at any king you throw at them.
They were beautiful too once, you know,
and still are, if you look and if you look well.
Look, someone left a bunch of tulips by this gravestone,
amid a cluster of yellow dandelions.
That’s got to count