On the whisper night, that dark cloak
stuck to my back wet with rain, there
I hear the damaged raven gamble
to talk to the sky again
To his mumbles up in trees
I hum along a melody
not knowing of course
that what he sings
is a strange ode to me--
he calls like a parrot
to the ghost of my past
like a dirty white sheet
thrown over the clothesline of sorrow
to dry in a Camus sun
doesn't he know
as he mocks me
that time has already made me
come undone?
