This is an old Seattle poem that I think was published somewhere, though I don't remember where. I always liked the energy of this one, even if the imagery is a little, shall we say, dark.
["heart of darkness"]
Who am I to conjure midnight at noon,
implore rise and watch the dead
crawl decayed from their graves?
Dark magic of words. Capturing the crow’s
shadow so that I may see through
his tricky eyes, use his powerful beak
to peck at knots just below surface.
A kind of theft, this conjuring,
like the bright young god who stole
prophecy from a young woman’s lips
with the simple gesture of a kiss.
Always something sexual at the source
of all actions, thinly disguised hunger
behind all creation and destruction.
And at the root, twin snakes knotted
in sleep. Above them an oak tree
dropping acorns. Despite the fog
and rain outside my window, on this page
it is spring. Perhaps I delude myself
in the power of words;
the dead, after all, do not rise
from the earth at my command,
and the crow, no matter what I say,
has no need of a shadow.
The knotted cord unties. Because
the world refuses, I conjure midnight
at noon, and it is good.