A heart contracts. Less room in it, and what
was once inside pressed outward. Chamber walls
close in, then stop. A heart expands, it calls
blood in from elsewhere. No return: the way is shut.
The limbs breathe blood, inhale it in great draughts,
come full alive. Air in the carmine flood,
flood in the air. Crow’s wings push off, warm blood
to tinge the skin around the feather shafts,
the blood aloft. The heart aloft. Crow’s feet
are numb where they have grasped too long. Blood aches
through black and taloned fingers. Feeling wakes,
alive again, suffused with sanguine heat,
and tucked under Crow’s breast of velvet night.
Crow’s feet can rest when Crow’s heart is in flight.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Poetry
Crow's Foot
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