ON THE COMING OF BREAD

And here, the mouth of a boy calls the sky
A moth flutters over the incarnadine
Discovery that his hand is an extension
of his bowl.
The ray of sunshine falls from behind
The yoke of his neck.
The serenity of his eyes unbittered
By the fumes from vanishing buses
He murmurs his incantations
Shakes his bowl to summon the
Ashes of greed pocketed by men
He sings his incantations
His voice is an incarnation of an old tree
In how it extends into the spasms
of spaces souls of men inhabits
He shouts his incantations

And here, the mouth of a boy calls the sky
Men do not hear him
And here, men are busy looking for the ray of sunshine.

© Ibankhan