You will never know
how a poem wakes you.

When the moon goes to sleep,
like real, but cute, your
swallows hold the space
between the breasts, feeding
on words in flight.

Be fed with divinity.
The beauty lies in mute love.

The birth of pain
brings you back home.
You create your own brick world.

Like red rain, you
collect the sparks, floating
in brisk air. Something was going
for self-immolation, like an unholy
thought inside me.

I will ask you
to pull down the sky.