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My Crows by Yuan Changming

I.

Still, still hidden

behind old shirts and pants

like an inflated sock

hung on a slanting coat hanger


with a prophecy stuck in its throat

probably too dark or ominous

to yaw, even to breathe.


No one knows when or how

it will fly out of the closet, and call.


II.

Like billions of dark butterflies

beating their wings

against nightmares, rather

like myriads of

spirited coal-flakes

spread from the sky

of another world,

a heavy black snow

falls, falling, fallen

down towards the horizon

of my mind, where a little crow

white as a lost patch

of autumn fog

is trying to fly, flapping

from bough to bough.


Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) and BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.

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