The tibial spiking
now hurts.
The floaters on the dried bed―

of bones, speak volumes
of sand in eyes.
Pawns have disappeared.

The earth is wounded.
A snake climbs onto the pink lips
to know its crime.

The matter interacts wrongly
with radiation. Spectroscopy
fails up to the hilt.

On the spur of the moment
I ignite the shadow
of the space between us.

The miser starts counting the coins.