Poetry

Driving the moment 
you swoop on the clock 
expanding the grief of 
blue mind. 
 
You said, 
I want to know the name 
of spilled blood on the dirt road 
to freedom of thoughts. The noun 
was more repugnant than the verb. 
The crowd was becoming 
restive. 
 
You cannot raise your children 
by feeding them with your hands 
and making them sleep in your bed. 
Where were the books? the scraps 
and waste? 
 
You could have identified the code 
of forgotten gods.