Poetry

I can do it, hold the wasp 
in my palm― without grains 
and short of fructose. 
 
Layer by layer eggs 
will leak― wetting 
the vibrating stigma. 
 
Neat abuses, will suck 
the milk of nodding thistle. 
No marrow comes out to save the elixir. 
 
The hoofers, without 
stirrups were running blindly 
after the fallen apple. 
 
The sage sways sadly 
in the passive winds. It’s aroma 
enters the stream of sex.