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Libby Hart-lII




Steady of wing come dark-stained words,

the raven knowledge of my ancestors.


I remember how the black bird was once white,

but a chattering of misgivings inked him into punishment.


Again, the riffling of books in my mind:

a phrase, a seam of memory. All day I wear its hem.


I watch night seeping, wait for luminous light—

for its teal edges to become gifted song.


Its whistles and crackles

must be answered with a murmur.


Aurora’s green, sky-dwellers reeling.

The north is spun.