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.