A POEM ON THE BEAK OF A BIRD
I am a lonely tree inhabited by birds-
who have learnt to enjoy their songs.
they sing because this is the life they’ve come to know.
I am by a trench & my body is stealing;
I melt once in a while so I can embrace a new shade & shape.
Tonight, the moon is seated on my balcony. she watches how I struggle to tally the pictures of my life.
I have also learnt to count the stars
in cumulative frequencies, say the mean is; [summation of stars] by [the wishes in my heart].
I’m wrestling for words to slash this voyage into syllables.
Once in a while, I empty my mind into a pail by the booth.
Today I fade like a leaf fleeing its twig
I grope like one stranded amid a crowd in a strange city; it is part of life.
Getting lost is another way to know a place.
How does a dead man discern the parole of the earth if he has not learned to inhabit the grave?
The longer the ground knows your body, the refiner your bones become.
I heard a poem in my dream
I lay a sheet of paper on my bed & breathed on it; a bird jumps out & sits on my shoulder. & I become a poem on the beak of that bird.