THE SUN AT NIGHT

I strew corn.
They never thank me. They hover like hornets,
swagger like drunks, bully, swoop, and hector;
but gratitude is a broken neck, a red strand
of plastic hanging from a distant beak, getting away,
something inedible. They swarm around the spruces.
Theo called them tungsten. I call them disheveled,
black light bulbs. They squawk as if understanding
means nothing. And it does.
I strew corn. It is beautiful,
the yellow kernels in their black beaks.

I'm working on a review of Bill Tremblay's Rainstorm Over the Alphabet (Lynx House Press). In 1990, in a Callaloo interview, Yusef Komunyakaa called Tremblay "one of the most underrated poets in America." Unfortunately, it's still true. Tremblay deserves many more readers.