Poetry

Living in a cyst, it 
would explore the breast. 
The black ethics goes beyond 
the bounds of mystique of 
non-movement. 
 
A while away 
a conflict comes out of the body. 
Melts into a face. 
There is no flesh, no skin. 
Only transgression, holding my hands. 
 
There were no arguments. 
Only speech punctuated by silent sobs. 
A taper standing in a gale. 
The shadow flies like an arrow into 
the pitcher of hemlock.