And the crow was the big black bin bag

and the big black bin bag was the crow

and their blackness shimmered

taking the light to purple
And their struggle separated them, bird and bag

a bridge formed only by a sharp beak

pecking, tearing, woodpeckering

the bloated blackness at his feet
And the incision was a keyhole to the blackness

Snowfalls of paper threaded out; a magician’s hankies

Discarded, shaken from the skewering beak

The skin, the fat: to the guts of it
And a smaller bag of viscera found within

cut through and through and through

And the big black bin bag erupts a lava flow of scraps

And low, the happiness of crows