This is not
a poem
but a windblown rag
of thought
tumbling
in a gale
a crow at play
in the eery vastitudes
of mind
where I call it to hand
with a
crumb
of an idea
that it might sit on
my shoulder and
tell
about itself
of murders done
of joy found
and freedom spent
in the upper air
its
blue
moments
finding reflection
in my dark inner
world