taken from raven's mouth

how much sunlight is getting
through the gray waves
of noisenoisenoisenoisenoise that shake
the stones from the ground and make me turn

my back on the breeze to chase down echoes
with my gaze through the bone halls of this longhouse?
when harts leap from my mouth, how much are words
worth? as much as all this light in
the middle of the night, or less; or more
than all those pages of verse on the dirt floors
and playhouse stages crowded with our whispered curses?

what's worse is all those barking crows i know
that could fill the role (but won't) never stole
a thing but away because they knew
our shadows were blacker than
the feathers on their backs and

i cant i cant i cant incant
i cant i cant incant
i cant incant
i in canada cant find a word
worth a single point of liquid crystal light
unless i draw it from my open veins with needles
made by touch from the glassy bones
we grew too fine
to form a frame