Lost Month

The light of the eyes in the house of the crow. Here the gods'

voices break and some will never sing again, but some come

closer and whisper. Never their names.

There are no hinges. One side of the door is simply forgotten

in the other.

The seven-branched permission appears already lit, unasked,

but the wind is the wind of parsimony, and the shadows, which

are numerous and large, strain at their slender leashes. One

fine day the first knives come through the mirrors, like the fins

of sharks. The images heal, but imperfectly.

We keep discovering parts of ourselves which came to exist

under this influential sign.