Poetry

The ambrosial ending
of the day. I was not sure
of myself. How would the
thumb mould the pen
in internal search
of cavities?
 
You are not going to live
hundred years. Falling from
the terrace, with a thud,
lying in the pool of blood, till you
find the celibate truth?
 
Between the dust and dawn
lies the dark. The oesophageal
reflux makes a hole
in each eye. Can you
read in the thick fog
of absent faces?