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I Was Reading Yeats

I was reading Yeats when Poe's raven
flew overhead and cawed
and I put my hand up over the sun
and saw blue sky with polar fluff blowing
as the raven wheeled again.

I heard the wind over its wings - not a pumping sound
but the smooth hiss of a glide, I was that close.
It spiraled up - its wings out stiff, only curving to be lifted
higher around Yeats's tower until a mere
black speck, scribbling: the nib of Poe's pen.