Poetry

Water has no feet.

With cupped hands,
I will pick up
the crying baby.

When stars
go to sleep, I hear you
in dark, wandering
like amusk deer.

In a book
I will keep your eyes.
When you cradle in
Selene's arms, my thoughts
will catch a poem.

Once your mind
was not occupied with
my image, a fly of poison
bit me.

I was never the same again.