Poetry wound
and a large schism
starts an invasion.
...
The child was trembling inside you:
eliminated,
revived,
walking past an explosion
...
This was an embryonic stimulus
for a sprint.
Knowledge itself has no legs.
...
What is the thing of poverty,
of frozen pain,
fury under the snow,
between fire and rain?
...
Tilted lips on the wet eyes.
Below the lids
was floating an island in a lake.
...
For an ailing love maker
ending was optional.
Nobody wanted to extend the truth
and hear the distant voices.
...
Living against the food amnesia
gold bricks call for austerity
in passage of the hunger.
...
Death sits in wait
in the empty valley
of your sleeper cell.
...
Handprint of innerself was
writ large in your eyes.
I hear you in your becoming.
...