by Simon Perchik

I dig this grave
the way migrating birds
remember the exact site 
-the spade pecking at itself
till all that's left to eat
is the dampness in its bones.

It took this crow forever, first
to darken, then
to fly but I am still afraid
keep widening this hole
not sure -all night each star
returning to the same spot
and this blade somehow heavier.

I lay down a bird
that still has wings
has a place you can use -the air
is not so safe anymore
and the dirt against its body
already growing into light

into some great mountain range
and these few feathers around it waist
looking all over for you 

-you are always falling into rivers 
-what you breathe now
comes from these shallow graves
emptied then filled -this crow
with its back to the sky
and no room left on Earth.