In the lap of the guest so fast,
in the burlap sack of heaping sugars
a crow tied to a fox.
The tusks of dusk snapped
in pepper and a flash of hay.
A hill rolled to the door and knelled, Here, on green knees!
Each mirrored in its spoons of moons, over a shoulder
what it sought:
Thoughts that bind when I run, said the fox,
with pearls for balls; that blind
when a familiar comes, wending from sides
for hitching and nurturing like a fast
friend, with only glows for eyes, like the wicks of crows.
Tendons couple
in a crimson stream and the popped collar moon hums
everything what a morning
will read aloud: too loud, too clear!
I'm on sour breath stilts, said the crow,
to read waters with fury.
Everything that means a happy pauper's emptying or being
driven in such a fashion
as the Great Pollution created by masters to bring
a more certain nature out of its beloved hiding
though it rises only in hairs and moves with friction for a crown
and stands to know so little of what is left
even as day clarifies these white crows the deaf
with dreaming stuff.
- Farnoosh Fathi
