Issue 14

The crow was busy building his caw.

All morning, hobbling over lawns
and courtyards, he sought out
straw and scraps of cloth.

The crow was not bent on perfection.
He did not attempt the prototype.

He was working from an illustration
scrawled in black, blurred with purples.

He cobbled outwards from the middle,
caw trembling at edges like
taut rubber bands.

Neither blueprint nor preface
nor judgment immutable, not a law

or a formula, but everything at once
and singular, a token tossed back

flawed as the world it came from,
now reimagined, now revised,
crow, for his part, satisfied.