A Keyhole Surgery

Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name.

Anonymously, you want to
postpone the commitment
to accept the murder
of yourself,
the griever.

The towering belief-
that there were skeletons
on the grains, as the words
become verses.

A snowy virgin
will take a knife, to bring
down the stars
when you sing centuries
of love.