Tell me. Years after, did he ever look at his hands and see them
Deeply wrinkled, bulging veins like tree knots, trembling
And think. Hm. I regret.
I have been told birds line up on power cords outside his house
Crows, black. Tell me, did he ever see and think a raven instead, and before seeing
The feathers were not elegant and long and made of purple-tint, tell me.
Did he laugh, thinking I was back?
Oh, but it will not make shreds of sense in the retelling, of course.
Tell me. When he read this poem, did he think. She is on top of a treehouse.
Arms outstretched. Half a bird. Wild eyes and crazy. Once again.