CROW FROWNS
.
Is he his own strength?
What is its signature?
Or is he a key, cold feeling
To the fingers of prayer?
.
He is a prayer-wheel, his heart hums.
His eating is the wind--
Its patient power of appeal.
His footprints assail infinity
.
With signatures. We are here, we are here.
He is the long waiting for something
To use him for some everything
Having so carefully made him
.
Of nothing.
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