Poetry

A frame 
lifts the skirt of a portrait 
and throws her genitalia 
on your face. 
A twin blast has taken place. 
 
Why did you stand for 
eclecticism? 
The fables will miss you 
and blue horse 
will not return home. 
 
The naked feet 
will roam on grass, when 
shoes will ask; 
what is the miracle? 
It happens once a while. 
 
Reified the colors into pink 
thighs – for every word, 
cubics 
stood undressed. 
Now the table waits for you.