Poetry

Was I sane? 
Like poetry infiltrating, 
when you were eating grass? 
And money was walking free. 
 
The hollow eyes 
had the moral authority 
to expunge the fidelity from the 
book. Are the blue needles 
 
hurting you, I was asking moon? 
Moon’s stony eyes started 
watering. Strangers in bed, the 
trust had a different taste, another smell. 
 
Words were loaded, they were 
going to start beheading a tender song.