Step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white.

And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.

I walk in the air between the rain,
through myself and back again.
Where? I don't know
Maria says she's dying.
Through the door, I hear her crying
Why? I don't know



--crows