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The soaked crow beside the road

has lost his definition. His smooth

bird outline and shiny blue-black

feathers—once used by poets

to describe the color of

their beloved’s hair—

are dulled and dripping. He seems

attired in unkempt fur, wooly.

Like a yak. His stick legs gingerly

step beneath him through a muddy

puddle. The surrounding neon grass

plays its role as the gatekeeper

of the busy college road, lying

obedient before the digital clock

in the yard of the national bank’s

prim and well-kept local branch.

from The Open SecretFind more by Jennifer Moxley at the library

Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Moxley
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Jennifer Moxley Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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