In evening I need

to speak with my small voice

to fill my dreams with moon.

Buried alive in the brick―

wall, a frightened poem

wails.

I will meet you, my muse―

in your space, without any pang,

though the road has not ended.

Drinking the dark

wordplay with no qualms

at the virtual rise of doom.

The fireflies, with their

breasts aglow, were ready to conceive

the radical ultimate.