Do I ask a question,
sometimes red―
sometimes blue?
My pain of centuries
was not interpretive. There
were no tears left
in the eyes.
Something gets in my
poem. I go white, as
the blank page of a book.
Like a big fish
claiming its territory
on small limbless cold animal.
The pure adoration
makes you numb. How can
you handle a falling moon?
The lavender was
melting into effeminacy.