Poetry

One day balancing over
waters, someone drops dead.

Birds of a feather,
of no final abode,
were going to fall on
burning coals.

This was an era of
collective suicide.

Something goes amiss.
God was absent.
There was no evidence.

I should not have
fallen in love, with no talons.
I cannot bite the nails.

There were no sources.
No walls. You cannot find
the shade under the moon.

The imperial bell
will not toll.