I Don't Have a Brain

Raven

A whisper of crumpled paper flits amongst plotting robins.
You could catch it between your mechanical hands,
wires and old bones,
strip it of the grave lettering.
Writing is a blackened palette.
A raven hasn’t a long enough neck to clip its wings,
though when it collides with the bathroom window
it swallows its tongue, throat searing from death;
chest inflated with bloody adrenaline.