Poetry

Looking around for a loop of light, 
a captive throws out his 
trove of litter and ask for a 
right to be killed. 
 
This was question hour 
of your conscience. Who would 
now act as on executioner? 
Anybody who has not stolen a glance? 
 
You are standing alone with 
the rats.The hips were exploding. 
Owls will assemble later on 
to mourn the death of a native giant. 
 
Under a yellow moon I had met him 
once. He had promised to talk about 
sexual encounters with nameless 
ghosts under the waterfalls.