the black soil is a raven's typewriter
every broken egg,
an exclaimation point and question mark
combined,
until Socrates arrives and begins cawing
neologisms to the Sky,
and the raven's eye inverts
and nothing is left but a tree the shape
of the Philosopher's Skull,
where all the birds have become suddenly
suspended by the sound of a halogen lamp
flickering off and on
in the corner of the world,
where the Great Bird is dancing with a Shaman
into an undiscovered color
somewhere between Ultraviolet and the Speed of Light,
like Oberon's eyelid
wagging in some Shakespearean sentence
undiscovered until the moment the pages of the book
rustle in the wind
of Stratford
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