The wind was black
and I wanted to make an eye contact
with the unknown.
Following the stars
in midnight―
there was something called
desire, in clean moon,
untying the knots―
in breast. The truth
was not in kernel,
it was in the flowing veins
of the leaves; sun, trapped
in green carbon. The―
wordless poem dousing
the fire between the cinders.
The cosmic door opens, shuts.
The bird song covers your tracks.