I wanted to be ready.
Take my consent for the assault,
before you reveal
your fangs.

Trigger-happy,
the fiesty moon, shoots
at the tangerines of orange―
red skins.

The waves will not grieve.
There was ample time
to drown the black buttons
of windshields.

Bleeding mouths of
baby poems eject the barbs.
Forget the believers. There
was no magic in my art.

It was a pure symphony.