Can you reach that old crow with the camera obscura
Nestled above the bank, hiding, a sniper in a clock
Towering over time, tweezing lint from her lens, making you
Into frozen water, with the release of her shutter holds
Your explosive power wickless forever exploited in her celluloid scene.
You who came from meteors can’t be stopped by flesh
Or glass or stone and gravity holds you like grandmother’s
Toothless empty suggestions about tattooed sailors’ past ports and stamped
Passports riding on your back and tasting the oranges they
Wish they had, for the skew of scurvy slants their
Skeletons and bends them to a bow of reverent benevolence
Mourning the loss of brothers sleeping inside the insidious sea.
I bet they won’t compare to the crisp taste of that
Crone’s camera, do you feel her stealing your salty soul
With that light box, if you had ears you could hear
The screams of the boys and the buildings and ladies
Gnawing at the leafy landscapes of flora and blossoming bastilles.
Rise up and snuff them out. Show them your depths
can get deeper and how your boundless appetite could swallow
them whole, a slow digestion of soak and silent violent
weight crushing the air from their lungs, the ones that
used to breathe, used to know, used to live in
You, could do it I bet, that woman and her
Arid town could become your personal playground of soggy seesaws
And muddy merry-go-rounds and starlight song to keep company. 
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