A Keyhole Surgery

Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name.
 
Anonymously, you want to
postpone the commitment
to accept the murder
of yourself,
the griever.
 
The towering belief―
that there were skeletons
on the grains, as the words
become verses.
 
A snowy virgin
will take a knife, to bring
down the stars
when you sing centuries
of love.