[An attempt at an “innovative” sonnet]




Truck stop crow stands mute, witness to sacred

succulence, the worm-eaten. Sturdy god

of greasy compost advance, to slipshod

foraging, lurking as forsaken vagrant.


Silly black vagrant outshining the moon-

brilliant oil slicks, neoned ruse of plenty.

Sentinel of wrecked weasles and many

smashed souls, empty beak pecking at a spoon


reflecting sky, sundown, the pulpy sheen

of feathers. Corvid companion decrees

all is not lost at the Stinker Station—


land of midnight chrome, temple to obscene,

consolation in fireworks of debris.

And each redemptive morsel, unforeseen.


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