A Lost Soul Speaks

James Owens

Is it fair that every dawn and sunset
an old crow the earth’s rotation

has near worn down to a sparrow
unfolds his speech

in so many black leaves
from the peak of my house

to make a new sky?

Sometimes the day is dark.
Some evenings stagger

with foamy lights.
At midnight, I tear

a hole in the sky
and peek at God, there,

where he flaps and caws.

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