Blast of horny
words comes from sideways.
It was your mind.

A hungry soul―
like a hawk, looks straight
in the eyes of a victim.

The bunch of clouds
make an areola around
your head. Were you crying?

The mushrooms grow
overnight on your lips.
At dawn, the steam
hurts my poems.

And I think, to
turn back to my chains,
to stitch again my gaze.