He kinks his neck into an S To fly. He produces no oilTo keep his feathers dry. He perches on a driftwood log, To lift this wings into Vs,Inverted. Perhaps an obtuse M—To drip dry in air & sun. His wingspan taunts us as curtain rods to robes,Umbrellas opened indoors.His bill hooks to a JTo grab fish. In Latin, he’s corvus marinus. Sea crow. See, crow, you lose. Hang over Milton’s gardenAnd wisp off Like a drift of smoke.
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