A streak of sin,
just as culpable,
gives back my pains.
A half-finished poem
jolts me out of my vision.
Someone drops the moon―
and becomes evident in mist.
A profile floats. I
imagine the spreading smile.
I want to understand myself.
The colors blend. Have
you read Rilke? You will not
rise from the surface of―
life and death.
Authenticity has become
rarer. Copyright to kill is
religion. An aquiline nose
smells the prey.