It was a complete disaster.
I will listen to moon tonight, while
writing your name
on bikini top,

holding the pigeons. The
birds had abandoned the
walnut tree in haste. Between
them can you see a butchered

image of little god, who
broke the cold chain of flirting
and sat on a rosette of
tears blocking the sun?

Was it true that death always
sits on our shoulders like an
owl undocking the life for piercing
contentious lips?