Poetry

Put off the lantern. 
I am waiting for the moon’s 
primal face. The lesser flamingoes 
were going to shed the pink color. 
 
Nude as a python, the kiss 
of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. 
I suffer in the hands of protests. 
The black ice now enters the eye of a needle. 
 
A barefoot noun feeds the junta. 
The butter babies will serve the poetry 
of poor on the mats of principles. 
I will remain unslept on straw. 
 
A newspaper eats the story this side. 
After the bloodbath surgeons weep. 
An armless lover hugs a priest 
for not calling the gods.