Buddha Sleeps

After the plumes,
legs are blown off.
Your body smells of migration
and length of
wasted strings.

The questions will
never return.
Buried deep in crescent heart.
Do you have the authentic
information about the murder
of the crested tit?

The woodlands
will go without a song.
I will live in rotation
with biological grief of earth
and emotional blackmail
of moon.

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