Poezja

Again, 
a hunt will start, 
incognito. 
 
Uncorfirming 
a freak. A zipless encounter 
without a knife. 
 
I am not going 
to lose a blue peacock. 
Light will not come. 
 
Into the dark recess 
I had planted 
a time bomb 
 
in the womb. 
Give me a blight, 
if you want. 
 
Yet I am going 
to sail, combing 
the moon.