Poetry

There was no clear move. 
Flamethrowers were on the way─ 
 
and I was looking, 
backward. 
 
A fragile truce with the 
clouds. They had abandoned─ 
 
the sky and were wringing─ 
the neck of mountains. 
 
Compromising with the painted lips 
of winter, my secret was out. 
 
I was shivering in the crowd 
of moon-gazers.