Poetry

Like a meteorite streaking 
through the sky, iron 
and nickel, for a proxy collision 
with hidden destiny. 
 
It was the post trauma 
syndrome, after the great 
divide of breast, lifting 
the nipples. 
 
The lofty peak crumbles. 
There will be the scare 
around, to grow the poppies 
on the mounds again. 
 
Are you ready now 
for emasculation? The 
legacy will, on its own, pass 
onto alternative sins.