Poetry

A hate apart, living in embraces, 
one night― you find the 
bridge collapsed― in the 
forest of skins. 
 
In exasperation― I watch 
the face of the adultery. I 
will know― I am going too fast 
for the hypocrisy. 
 
Why you were becoming too 
cozy to the silence of the necks. 
The little feet are not― 
able to run for the morning star. 
 
Shutting the lamps. No moths 
will descend on the books― no 
bleeding of the verse, so 
you can become empty of arithmetic.