Poezja

It does not work; 
the manipulation of the fast. 
The genomic fugitive 
nurtures a home of light, windswept pyre. 
 
Under the prophet 
a gloom unloosens the absolute. 
Now as you weave 
a pattern of lies, the page hits. 
 
The book is thrown into 
fire. The words swim, break the grief 
of naked sun. There 
is flooding of wombs. Who will conceive a god? 
 
Between you and me, 
a river flows. I become voiceless. 
You cannot build a bridge. 
The spinning curve outlines the shore.