The colum­nist reads the crows
falling out of the the laurels
and adjusts his hat. The sto­ries come
when the dogs go slack in the wet grass
and the crows walk in the street.
There is talk of revolt,
the mad­ness at home can wait.
We wait until night to howl at the rats
behind his house where he waters
the grass, sil­ver and naked but for his hat.

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