the poet working is a special kind of obeah;
a neat pile of broken pencil leads and inky nibs,

in the page’s corner wet; memories, a name opened
in a thrush’s mouth; an orphaned feather;

a song and a world blooming in the throat;
a stirring of bones, a clearing of souls

through a loose bundle of sage leaves ablaze
in dark rooms; a special kind of open -

like black bibles, church doors, and irises.
The ibis spreads its wings and shadows fall

like rain –light scattering from darkness
It’s own religion, its own, its own

imprisoned page, its only way of seeing
things (the world), its only way of being.