Poetry

A poem writes my name.
I am trembling
on paper like salt.

Flowing like moon
on the black wound.
The lamb and the skull.

I know the saint
invented by masses.
You need a fresh awakening.

A vastness from nothing to nothing.
Later the pebbles will dance
on the bay of death.

Sometimes the scales were jinxed,
sometimes the weight was light.
I was sitting under a chaste tree.