Poetry

On the canvas,
I was drawing only the feet―
in run.
No heads, no torsi.

Was it a dark vision,
when you found the inert bodies,
crowding the summit?

Primates had already devised
the sponge, to gather up
the answers.

Geraniums become blind―
after their involvement,
in sorcery.

Making an inventory of
fugitives, no body was left at
home, when fire broke out.