Epistemology of Crows
Once I loved a philosopher,
loved him in great slabs of loving
I kept piling up like meat on a butcher’s table.
Piling and piling even as sinewy chunks slopped on the floor.
He was a Christian philosopher,
used God like an awl to carve absolutes,
and refine the edges of his categorical, meanwhile
the world squawked and squealed and rotted and burned and burgeoned.
One summer day, we took out the canoe
and rigorously discussed the morality of art in an attempt
to join our disciplines. We agreed about many things and it was lovely,
floating out there. We discovered a private inlet and paddled in to enjoy the shade.
Some big fish must have gone belly up in there.
It stunk to high heaven and crows stalked the shore,
chiding and chattering and beating oily wings. When we got close,
they lofted into the sky and the bones of their wings were like the bellows of an accordion.
They were not beautiful
but of a magnificence that bore some relation to beauty.
He didn’t understand what I meant even after I nearly tipped the canoe
as I swayed and flapped my arms, squeezing out my eager tune.
That night he worked his copper awl
and the birds made an enormous racket in the yard
so I went, dragging a great slab with me outside,
into the cackle and cry and squawk and symposium to share this meal with the crows.
Once I loved a philosopher,
loved him in great slabs of loving
I kept piling up like meat on a butcher’s table.
Piling and piling even as sinewy chunks slopped on the floor.
He was a Christian philosopher,
used God like an awl to carve absolutes,
and refine the edges of his categorical, meanwhile
the world squawked and squealed and rotted and burned and burgeoned.
One summer day, we took out the canoe
and rigorously discussed the morality of art in an attempt
to join our disciplines. We agreed about many things and it was lovely,
floating out there. We discovered a private inlet and paddled in to enjoy the shade.
Some big fish must have gone belly up in there.
It stunk to high heaven and crows stalked the shore,
chiding and chattering and beating oily wings. When we got close,
they lofted into the sky and the bones of their wings were like the bellows of an accordion.
They were not beautiful
but of a magnificence that bore some relation to beauty.
He didn’t understand what I meant even after I nearly tipped the canoe
as I swayed and flapped my arms, squeezing out my eager tune.
That night he worked his copper awl
and the birds made an enormous racket in the yard
so I went, dragging a great slab with me outside,
into the cackle and cry and squawk and symposium to share this meal with the crows.