It falls from the sky, or from the northern red oak,

that used to shade my front lawn, is bigger

than a breadbox, barely, has no arms, legs,

wings. Round, it seems to glide, its skin

thinner than tree bark, thicker than leaves,

with a mouth that takes in whatever’s near.

More curious than fearful, I watch it move,

turn it, give it a gentle push. It sucks up

dead grass, moss, lichen. As I walk away,

a younger man comes towards me, twirls me,

pulls my back to his front and holds me close.

I succumb, melt into him, we float in a

warm sea. When I awake, I know what this

mouth creature is and I will always be hungry.
 
 
 
*Original music accompanying these poems were written by Steve Jones who is a composer, musician, songwriter, and teacher who lives in Kensington, MD. He has written two jazz musicals.