Poetry

When the intellect was 
defiling the unwritten book; 
half-read, you reach for epiphancy. 
 
Why you had to kill yourself 
on the swing, before reaching─ 
the peak? Searching for escape? 
 
I cannot know you, O flame. 
Do not go beyond the sky. 
My wings twist like nasturtiums. 
 
Last night a city wept in─ 
my arms. There were no roses─ 
left and, no cut glass nudes. 
 
They bleed, when you dig 
out the roots. The croci were 
planted by me when snow had melted.