that crow 

is almost the tree,

as darkness edges 

the evening

how easy it eases

into being,

this forgetting

the blue sky,

bleeding, soon

leaving only 

the bones

of the moon.

I always wondered 

if I was your tattoo,

the one of the 

hungry bird

pecking your wrist

or did you feel me 

like a color

almost like acid green

slightly like the shade

of your periwinkle shirt

that evening.

maybe it seemed

I eclipsed you endlessly

In the never-ending 

landslide of me

you were for me

almost a hiding 

when all I craved

was a finding

now I'm almost

not hungry

as the bird 

picks the moon clean.

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