I often search for that patch of grass
in that abandoned park where I lost my rage.
It isn’t the rage so much as the crows
that I stumbled upon, ten black and lovely crows,
ten crows heaved up from a carcasse, ten crows
that with clear dispatch carried something away.
I have yet to find it, that patch of grass
in that abandoned park. I have yet to find
my rage. And if no crow deigns to bob and caw,
if no crow deigns to tell, I am certain all
that ever was will not be mine as well.