Scribbles, a Bird that Flew into my Ear
evening with no-one in charge, frying an old
tossing the bones to the cat,
headed for the inn where Mr. God himself often
inn that claims to provide bedding
of covering any vice for one night,
inn of clouds flowing like blood-stained bedding
the wardrobe, and the mourners, visiting without
two flowers to left and right of my
dead-portrait by the bed
that night, a bird flew into my ear
a stone someone had thrown violently.
otolith, one small egg laid parasitically in my
in that abandoned world
patterns of slaughter are engraved.
bird crows all night long inside my ear.
scribbles on a blackboard, like the hand of the
everything from the painted air,
I shall quite this inn,
cramped than my old overcoat.
torn overcoat and a loose sweater woven of
after nighttime air-raids
red were laid over the bed of dawn
refugees’ bus from Seoul to Damascus,
Tara to Gaza following my auricle
in spirals then like a stone
by someone as soon as the broken bus-window was
bird that had flown into my ear tore my eardrum
flung itself down out of the clouds.