Poetry

I am lifting 
your blood-soaked shirt 
giving the latitude to planet 
which broke the law. 
 
The elite 
wants to know, why you were 
still here, when steam was rising 
in golden night? 
 
An extended 
grief overtakes the wind 
in the flute. You become a free man 
walking naked. 
 
The gyres 
were calibrating the magi. 
An empty niche waits for a Buddha 
to take the re-birth.