By Karl Plank
Two rumors have been circulating in town. The one, How a murder of crows gathered in the corn field while You played with fiddle and bow. The other Keeps you awake and Involves what happens next, which No one really knows. Generally, most suggest the worst, Doling out predictions of ruined harvest, Of stalks stripped bare and ravaged. Their Mouths are mean, but you see where they’re Coming from and have wondered the same. Often it is that way. An excess of Merriment feels like something you should pay Extra for, a judgment requiring forfeit To balance an unforgiving scale. How dour this is. And how it makes you Yawn. When the crows came you saw no cloud of Ill fate, nor saw at all beyond the Luxury of daylight’s lifting of Languor, the hot and heavy Burdens hard to escape Except when breezes blow, Daring all to flutter, to dance at least Once in golden beams, Never thinking of how it could end Except in music.
Karl Plank is the author of A Field, Part Arable (Lithic, 2017) and the critical work, The Fact of the Cage: Reading and Redemption in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (Routledge, 2021). His poetry has appeared in publications such as Beloit Poetry Journal, Tahoma Literary Review, St. Katherine’s Review, and Zone 3, and has been featured on Poetry Daily. He is the J.W. Cannon Professor of Religion at Davidson College
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