Poetry

You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights-
go out.

I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds-

at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.

It would not be a day of mourning.

The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.

The menus are same, only
the taste was different.