Poetry

Every night you become
an insect, crawl into
the bed and chew the lips of unknown,
listening to the music
of flowing blood.

Outside the slogans-
tear at you. It was a wound
night, the words, untouching the space,
go- straight into the echos,
without any halo.

So where did you sink in
defiant orange of the sea,
while turning back from your designed
path? Another terrorist's sexism
was on play?

There were no barnacles, no
frog mimicry. I silent walk into
the arena to find the length of
the caravan.