BLACK CAT POEMS
html website builder
As if all the birds rushed up in the air,
Hoots, calls, cries.
I never knew such a monster even in child dreams.
Windows tight closed;
Dull, far-off murmurs of voices.
The soft, sticky patter of falling drops in the silence.
Faces float off in a red dream.
Still the song of the sweet succulent patter.
I think it oozes from my finger tips.
--Or maybe it drips from the brow of Jesus.
poems by Evelyn Scott