RAVEN IN THE EYE OF CHIRON, GUAYAQUIL

Raven is licking
his wounds next to the river—
invisible wounds
(invisible as his tongue)—
but he knows that they are there:

living in this time
is like sailing down a vein
away from the heart,
bound for the extremities
(marginality in love,

stupidity in
the place of awareness,
trenchant cowardice
that can’t tell a white flag from
a black feather at midnight.)

The bird feels lonely
swimming against the current.
The sluggish river
groans its way to the ocean
as Raven aims oxygen

like an arrow at
our collective unconscious—
holding his breath for
apocalyptic vision
to explode, and set him free.