A Murder of Crows
(In Memoriam for Jon Bentley)

Black crows were still
laughing
as I arose
this mourning.
Two days ago
you chose
to wake no more.
The crows' mad
cackle
raised my hackles;
the shrill sound
of shackles shaken free,
your black crows
gathered in my tree.

—Patrick Houlihan

Muse on Void

Poetry is a poor man
wondering aloud
what his life is worth in galactic terms—

a nickel for the red dwarf,
a quarter for the quasar,
no coin worthy of the stellar black hole...

—Patrick Houlihan