When the intellect was
defiling the unwritten book;
half-read, you reach for epiphancy.

Why you had to kill yourself
on the swing, before reaching─
the peak? Searching for escape?

I cannot know you, O flame.
Do not go beyond the sky.
My wings twist like nasturtiums.

Last night a city wept in─
my arms. There were no roses─
left and, no cut glass nudes.

They bleed, when you dig
out the roots. The croci were
planted by me when snow had melted.