I was not there
when omentum was incinerated.
No unparing was called for
digging your own grave.
In eerie silence, I
start collecting the shells
of forlorn pearls.
It would be a miracle
if I can read the invisible.
I can become a killer when you
are not there.
The mute girl will not―
give her lips.
Only eyes. I must lift my
poem from there.
The Hamlet\'s dilemma. You
will, will not taste the
hemlock.