The poet is speaking.
The window reflects his face.
A bird crawls out of the sun. Summoned.
Its wings are like tar.
That is because it is very hot.
The poet sweats too.
There is a beak at the back of his throat--
the poem is difficult,
his tongue bleeds.
That is because the bird is not really
dead. Yet.
Clap a little.
© Dennis Scott
[More on this poet...]
The window reflects his face.
A bird crawls out of the sun. Summoned.
Its wings are like tar.
That is because it is very hot.
The poet sweats too.
There is a beak at the back of his throat--
the poem is difficult,
his tongue bleeds.
That is because the bird is not really
dead. Yet.
Clap a little.
© Dennis Scott
[More on this poet...]
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| Dennis Scott Jamaican poet and playwright |
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