(dedicated to Gary Snyder)
That old crow always comes out,
looking at me as I sit in my car,
one hour to break away from what is breaking me.
He knows why I don\'t eat in the cafeteria -
not wanting to break bread with broken people,
who turn smile to frown once they pass you in the hallway.
I have seen other crows keep there distance from him -
that distance born of indifferent contempt,
for not wanting to be part of something so empty.
I decided to tell him the story of how wasteland is measured,
at least according to Isaiah;
and how all plumb lines are gauged by the soul.
I imagine his forefather on bust of Paris.
Flying over that oily wave washing on plutonian shore;
the emptiness so thick it has to recede -
to waning fire where blind Hector tells of keeping his brother.
Hence my offering.
Bun of hamburger and several fries;
which I must cast away past that distance,
he believes I could close upon him.