By the moon
I drink you again...

When I was arranging daffodils
you send in tanks...

The secular love:
you are contaminated...

Like a butterfly pinned
in a collage, fluttering...

Nothing was beholden.
Colony counts were perfect...

Abdicating the shadows;
totemic...

I met a talking moon
on the road of death...

The path disappears
under the foot...

Come and meet me in chamber of death
where the tempest comes every night...

You were starving the words
to commit the waves of hunger...

Lips of clay tend to bleed
my kisses...

Like each dropp of your humbleness
engulfing my urbanite woes...