Wallace Stevens
Vic Chesnutt
1, 2, ready, go
I saw a blackbird
Thirteen ways
And then strew a fist many
Mountains away
My evangelism felled
Brutally taken
By breezes that rubbed me
And lifted light raven
I stretched to borrow
Fine antebellum
To encase all the scrapings
Of us civilised fellow
I wanted to stash them
To secretive cages
With that fabulous blackbird
Of thirteen stages