It was a complete disaster.
I will listen to the moon tonight,
while writing your name
on a bikini top,

holding the pigeons. The
birds had abandoned the
walnut tree in haste. Between
them can you see a butchered

image of a little god, who
broke the cold chain of flirting
and sat on a rosette of
tears blocking the sun?

Was it true that death always
sits on our shoulders like an
owl undocking the life for piercing
contentious lips?