A crow tends a branch
on meaning's tree, where
a single word's limit
meets trouble's dark road,
deadpan map stolid
as Keaton's face. The story
swells and grows motives,
as weeds disguise gardens
in summer's amplitude.
Nothing undoes day's dazed
grace unless it is captioned
or chiseled. No word whispered
encounters the ghost of witness
as a glass that holds water's history.