Poetry

The truth of my blood 
at the mensal 
without prayer and anguish. 
 
Will you be able to 
heal the rift between color 
and smell? 
 
The other face― 
offering the tears in 
cupped palm. 
 
The slant eyes will 
never know, the end of― 
the day under the shadows. 
 
The endemic fugue― 
tilts the balance of angels. 
The bay tree sends the condolence.