--and the walls
are covered
in paper, and the slash-marks
of a horsehair brush,
black as ravens, stilled
in flight.
I see raven slash the sky
to ribbons
--over the low
hum
of the generator,
and bushes blooming,
gently
resting behind the leaves
black wings folded,
over his chest.
He is unfooled, you should be like him
and mask, a wicked beak
among the curved branches
and buds—
