Jim Crow Keeps Ravens in his Loft

Jim Crow keeps ravens in his loft.

Not live birds- dead ones,

Taxidermically stuffed,

Poised in the illusion of flight.

He says they keep him company at night,

When the wind moans low through the sycamore trees

And the moon lies smothered by the clouds

In that funk of dreaming terror when you try to wake yourself

But fall, fall again, fall better.

It’s said they carry messages

These black as cancer harbingers

Delivered beyond scrutinous report

Like ghastly witching postmen of the night.

One of these days he’ll get what’s coming.

Jim Crow keeps ravens in his loft.

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