Thursday, December 29, 2016

the dull roar of their black beaks

because the floppy heads
of the amaryllis
like a newborn skull
in the hands of a mother
laid down the stalk sideways
I proved its length
by wire and stick

tore off the shroud 
of two dead blossoms
that leaned it right
and let the stick work like a cane
let it hold the weight of three full heads
while the two new buds rolled cigarettes
waiting for the sun to set them ablaze

in the cold writing room
the stacks of poems in books screech
incomprehensible lines
that wish for simple existence
but are furred like a morning tongue
with night time sheets of muffled sound
the dull roar of their black beaks

I am reading a poem about landscape
but all I see 
are the nodding heads of the amaryllis stalk
falling over the shoulder of the stick
the hard wisps of the torn blooms
and the new buds fingered and rolled
for new use   smoking soon

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