Crag the Crow

For ten years the patient muddled through And for eight more he managed the neglect and decline. The festering sepsis soaked limb and liver. Liberty Morris was broken and breaking. Passively and actively The insidious infections in his soul Coupled with the toxins he ingested.   And the nurse arrived on a partly cloudy day, Loaded the crab-walking fool into a Chevy Nova For the rented pilgrimage to the clinic. The pathetic wasting hirsute beast Was loved and fretted over by the Philosopher Queen. She had healing in her heart, Courage in her spirit to spare.   Slightly old doctor Goidel Glas, examined patients near an olive tree. Liberty stumbled, sprawled on the earthen clay, regarding the healer.   Mountebank, I have been ill for half my life, it suits me well; My illness is now mine own self. Conceal your cathartic contraptions and catholicons, Restrain your pretended ancient knowledge My condition precedes, exceeds, destroys a breathless cosmos.   No...

The mostly shuttered hospital has become a hulk of bricks  Where children once were born and grandparents passed. The nurses and doctors have taken the healing arts Out of this once consecrated space.   Agonal breaths of a lung that enlivened this city Become gasps for a stale air that has receded, Calling all to a different pile of bricks for the next half generation, Distributing ineffable mysteries of catharsis.   And spying upon the old grounds a new creation springs forth - A squirrel has taken careful carefree time to bless this tiny maple. In the crook, in the elbow of a diminutive leafless arbor, He scratches his ears and watches the rushed and chilly scattering.   Barely noticed, he notices each ailing clothed creature. Does the squirrel judge, does the squirrel spurn, does the squirrel dismiss? Such destruction of the bonds of creation are impossible To this perfect beast, enjoying the thistled garden.   Caring for...