JAMES M. ROURKE

 

Hiding Under An Enormous Leaf

That noisy raven is here again,
croaking like some mythical crow-frog,
feathered green with bulging eyes,
able to leap from pond to treetops.
It smacks its black beak
and flicks a long, sticky tongue
in my ear. It tries to warn me
about reality, while really,
I suspect, it's hunting
for middle-aged, unknown poet-bugs
to tongue-roll unceremoniously
into the gurgling stench of its belly-womb,
offering rest from insecurity
and a new perspective on the guts of anonymity
before retching the jellied remains
into the gaping, pink mouths
of truth's horrid nestlings.