the horizon was drained
of clouds, jarred
and bleached of blue
with remains of an imagined
white
as we would guess it to be,
worked from drapes of light
flattened into sheets
of paper plates,
serving missing thoughts
to those gazing through
the vanished atmosphere,
left dizzy from the
loss of up or down
except for the sight
of a crow,
black,
gliding from high above
with its beak
breaking each plate
across my eyes,
towards a perch
of silver steel,
falling with talent
through an
indifferent sky.

 
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