Poetry

Dismantling―
my temple, brick by brick―
skin to skin,
eye to eye,
before the ascension.

The living legend is
dead. I cannot hear the burial
rites. Walls are rising.

The ashes are strewn
on the eyes of moon. Ages ago I
used to smile. Not now.

Accept me, with all
my non-gifts, dead songs and
wailing prayers.

My hands lift the terror
from the sand, palm leaves
crafting a virgin peace.