Poetry

This was a circle
which broke.

Like a heroin death,
like an eternal sleep,
like living on the dark floor of the lake.

There was no ovulation.
Earth has stopped brooding.

Submerged in quicksand
you cannot breathe,
after hurting yourself.

Do not go in the mirrors.
The fog was your friend.

Pick up the leaves, the
leaves fallen from the lone tree.
You become the seed.