Crow thought of a palace –
Its lintel crashed on him, his bones were found.
Crow thought of a fast car –
It plucked his spine out, and left him empty and armless.
Crow thought of the wind’s freedom –
And his eyes evaporated, the wind whistled over the Turkish Saddle.
Crow thought of a wage –
And it choked him, it was cut unspoiled from his dead stomach.
Crow thought of the soft and warm that is long remembered –
It blindfolded him with silk, it gangplanked him into a volcano.
Crow thought of intelligence –
It turned the key against him and he tore at its fruitless bars.
Crow thought of nature’s stupor –
And an oak tree grew out of his ear.
A row of his black children sat in the top.
They flew off.
Crow
Never again moved.
~ Magical Dangers, from Ted Hughes’ Crow
