Poezja

Dusting a rose 
dissecting a heart. There was wilder- 
ness in the woods. 
 
I cannot touch you 
O, wood sage 
you were so ephemeral. 
 
Your hands were 
knitting a bright wound in the air. 
Where was the moon? 
 
Not a kiss, 
the prodigal sun 
wants a death wish of a canary. 
 
The snow on the 
eyes. I wished I had 
met you earlier.