Poetry

Witch hazel jumps the 
gun. Questions arise. 
Why the cuckoo will not sing today? 
 
I am drumming the wall 
raised between us, 
opening a small window towards the sea. 
 
Strange things happen. 
Full moon was bleeding 
Astringent. I call for the mountain's music. 
 
This fractured statecraft. 
You become a stone after a blast; 
moving towards the periphery. 
 
Half-naked a statuette 
was walking in night to find a 
mortuary where Apollo was laid to rest.