Poetry

It was a complete disaster. 
I will listen to moon tonight, while 
writing your name 
on bikini top, 
 
holding the pigeons. The 
birds had abandoned the 
walnut tree in haste. Between 
them can you see a butchered 
 
image of little god, who 
broke the cold chain of flirting 
and sat on a rosette of 
tears blocking the sun? 
 
Was it true that death always 
sits on our shoulders like an 
owl undocking the life for piercing 
contentious lips?