Poetry

The dichotomy was complete. 
I walk in your tears 
to move away. 
 
The night smelt like a 
burnt-out doll, and I was 
quaking inside like a peony lip. 
 
The sunk baby. You stay 
uncovered in half-sleep. 
The drag of the noose around- 
 
your neck was evident. I 
want to squeeze the pods. 
Why did not the pollen meet- 
 
the stigma? The needles are 
coming out of the eyes. A prose 
is gone. The poem walks in.