To Max von Esterle
Black skies of metal.Criss-cross in red storms blow
Hunger mad crows at dusk
Above parks in grief and pale.
A light shaft freezes in the clouds;
And before Satan's curses
They circle and descend
Sevenfold in number.
In sweet and stale rot
Soundless their bills shear.
Houses loom from mute threats;
Brightness in the theater.
Churches, bridges and hospital
Stand ghastly in the twilight.
Blood-spattered linens billow
Sails upon the canal.