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About this Poem 

"This snippet is excerpted from the Crow creation myth (a crow being a drunk's left boot crammed into a country doctor's housecall satchel), forthcoming among a collection of creation myths: In the Old Days (Action Books, 2015)."

—Abraham Smith
 

from "Crow"

in his wide wide palm the reigns loose as a foundering
pulse the sky gone
the color of the dying too
and the night kneels
on the throat of the morning
the turkey is clocking and
the night is a preservationist
the morning is a revisionist and
the child is erasing her skin
with a toe thick school eraser for
the moon is the idea of the bone in theoretical x-ray
the clenched jaws of the stars
the doctor’s hunched under
run thick cold sweat thoughts of
the metals of air war asleep
in the father of the father of boom
the crow birds sketch the sky
fumble up a funnel up the sky yes
they try and tie a first bowtie up the sky
as life this life is a soap bubble popped by a pin ha ha
the horses the noises of going ha
sound permits energy mm
of thinking sound outside
the head if
the sound of bye bye but with
then beauty and sadness
rap goat horns on a mountain
man goats boom boom
the only occasion of living finally is love
sounding motion something
other than silence takes the mind
thinking of love
writing is going
poems are bye bye
but take me with
this one composed no clapped to the tune of
wild rivers of wind fire leather coining
demitasses in zee demure aspen trees
yes the liver meat noses of those planet stars
liver lichen oh sis
the stick cage the night is
and the doctor breaking it for the people
and hitching
isis i am not to build this worn house of smoke anymore

Copyright @ 2014 by Abraham Smith. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright @ 2014 by Abraham Smith. Used with permission of the author.

Abraham Smith

Abraham Smith

Abraham Smith is the author of Hank (Action Books, 2010) and Only Jesus Could Icefish in Summer (Action Books, 2014). He teaches at University of Alabama and shares his time between Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and Ladysmith, Wisconsin.

by this poet

poem
This poem is from a longer work, written in dedication to Abraham Smith's canine companion, Rodney.
poem
secret soil coital
the dove there
sounds blonde as
whipped oil
please appeal to
wimpling skies
journeying trees
there is but one fence
bone true and 
one blockhead dog
inside
to rend
the smarts
of trees
at journey's end
2
poem
like summer melon
hit by a part
from a washing machine

yes seeds but no
seeds to bean
the oils from

I run olive
oil all in my glasses

make it so I only see in sleep

wedge of bread
masks the crow
a clown you know
fat white nose

pecked once
and dropped
from yonder pine

your smashing legs
uncrossed

god your
2