Here November
is black with crows
unflustered waiting
not wanting anything
they don’t lament
they mourn us
they soar
slow and heavy in crosses
let’s cross ourselves
before they cross us out
they are too groomed
a feather operetta
there’s kitsch in death, too
and props
or another aesthetic

They come in murders and every November
tail-coat crows
bassoon crows
requiem crows
like skipped notes
sometimes atonal
stolen from Schonberg
crows like avars
in this empire of eagles

They come funereal, stern
proud and black
(every empire
has its November)

less of Mozart
less Mozart
more Salieri