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.