Poetry

Returning to the ragpicker
like a lone fly
of love triangle, said― were you
writing a letter to confess your love?
 
Like a glue sniffer, I
am stuck with you.
O brown earth, raw
wounds heal …
 
When I sing a blade
of grass, when I sit
under moon, holding your
hills for comfort.
 
My head nestling on
your heaving breast, while
I sleep without―
a dream.
 
It was devastating to eat
you. Your cauldron, bubbling.
Someone wants to pay
back your sun, your moon.