Poetry

Ah, it was not a diamond
ring. In your palm was sitting
a god, watching you disintegrate.

Your hands, tell the
agony of lifting darkness, when
the full moon was rising.

The author speaks.
Not the ink, about the nomadic words
which have come to bleed on paper.

Tortured leaves of―
autumn are gathering to celebrate,
this side of the fall.

Like attaining the liberation
of sea urchins, reaching
the table to sip water.

There was no saliva.