Poetry

Like sly coyotes 
you move around 
the fireballs. You switch off 
the earthly lights. They are 
now oranges. Presently 
a broker will sell the wounds 
of the moon. 
 
Why did you feel sad of something 
which was unsaid? A thousand 
and one words will speak 
when the poem would be brought 
dead. You are not here 
not in the nakedness of lies, when 
something glitters which was not yellow. 
 
The twilight now settles 
in your eyes. Moon refuses to 
plunge into darkness.