Poetry

It is. 
An explosive denial 
of an infinite firmness 
of round orbs. 
 
Why were you taking 
off your shirt 
to show the scars? 
it stirs a sequestered allegation. 
 
The glare was on my days 
and your nights. 
The suicide bomber was 
a kid, you know. 
 
When a poem leaves you, 
how far would you go to kill 
a blue jay 
for the golden cage?