Page 56 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #12
P. 56
47
red Breast
He pricked my conscience
in winter weather, with his cocked black ice eye aimed at me.
Ticking like a lookout
waiting for the drop.
Chest swollen with downy air, hunger-thin legs of sinew, taloned-strong.
I once heard his voice in a small room. He perched on a teacup
by a window open to the Spring,
and his notes were melting ice, coloured glass, beaten gold.
Go-between,
hopping on the cold dead days, almost tamed,
landing on graves for worms, here is seed for your breast, your eyes,
your song.
