Poetry

That cameo was my secret grief. 
He will make you sing, 
the hooded moon. 
 
Not a sacred thing 
Kissing the toes of a traveller 
for fecundity. 
 
In doorway it was between 
us and them for bargaining 
for Dahlias. 
 
Lips unkissed will call for 
honey from bees. 
Eyes will srarch for a candle. 
 
In alien land of flames 
and tumultuous desires, 
the golden breasts will take revenge.