I’ve been thinking of dead
birds
On granary floors
Trapped to starvation
For lack of passage out
and up,
Though light streams in
From other worlds
Like siren song.
Meanwhile, rats move
In and out as they please
Through dark holes
crouching low,
Whiskers tuned to the
Frequency of shadow,
Surviving for generations
On the toil of others.
Beware, said the poet.
Loving the light too much
Is dangerous.
You may sing the virgin
And rhyme for the radiant
queen;
Better to leave a morsel
of meat and
A goblet of blood-red wine
Outside the Crone’s door.
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