The dichotomy was complete.
I walk in your tears
to move away.

The night smelt like a
burnt-out doll, and I was
quaking inside like a peony lip.

The sunk baby. You stay
uncovered in half-sleep.
The drag of the noose around-

your neck was evident. I
want to squeeze the pods.
Why did not the pollen meet-

the stigma? The needles are
coming out of the eyes. A prose
is gone. The poem walks in.