Landing

The old crow lies undressed in the wind, looking backward,

with hands that don't open or close.

Logging is like that: a passion, not a science.

There's no number for digging in, for turning things over.

Yarder-landings are lost territory

on top of raped hills. there's no other way to say it.

I think I'll drive to the coast, break something in.

I'll stay out there a while, make smart remarks

until I get arrested. The old crow lies detestable

on the roadside, winded like an open drawer

of black leaves flipping backward, so I'll just defenestrate

this beer and I think I'll have another.

I don't want to lie anywhere with clipped wings cackling

at the door with nothing to cover my dick in the interludes

between examinations, where the wounded crows

end up talking about logging and throttles and cords.

I'd want to make a true back-cut; sudden, seductive,

kick out the wedge--to break the ice--jack the notch

open, make her speak, letting go, bare hands,

up the hill, do or die.

After that, knock off early, claim snakebite,

get drappered up, amuse myself,

Then dispose of the crow.