Drinking from the portrait
of an alienated moon
in a self-taught remedy―

I was looking very
hurt in the muse, which
had failed the earth.

I wanted to say, my
sun was my sun,
broken, eclipse by eclipse.

Who was traitor to oneself?
Sifting the leaves of a
raptor, to find the death

under the shade of
sundew, which blooms
when you become an insect.