Certain Handfuls of Snow

I’m happy now that I know
where things really stand
with crows flying into windows
or a certain scud of snow
that hits the fence as if
flung there by the handful
like rice at a wedding before
everyone believed that rice
makes birds explode. Which
it doesn’t. I have to tell you
that it doesn’t. I can’t ever
know a thing that you don’t
know — I can’t ever know that
you’re wrong — and just keep it
to myself. Certain handfuls
of snow, I must fling against
certain fences. Certain crows
can’t just live in my brain,
happy to rest with head under
undamaged, unbroken wing.


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