Poetry

The who was 
inside you. 
I want to discover, 
a foam-born deity, 
killing the moon. 
 
You destroyed 
me in the poems. 
I cannot weave the 
moonlight on the 
jessamines. 
 
Can you send 
a message to Mars? 
It is too crowded on 
the earth. There was 
no room for the muse.