​Release is in the Eye
by William Crawford

light on windowpane
turns into early absinthe

and the room tips
just a bit

in the presence of
my absence

beyond closed windows

(panes unbroken
denying easy symbolism)

there once was
an open field

ear of corn
sway of wheat
sun saying
nothing new
to that old crow

it was the color
not the sound
that awakened me

even with eyes
wide and shuttered

now
this high
lonesome bed
longs for a body
to warm it

and the closest chair
waits to be
kicked away.