A Dying Hymn

Your face had only the
eyes, when you flew backwards,
hovering like a humming bird.

There was no absolute,
hoisting the beheaded god.
In transience I will meet you
in air and shed the body.

In mouth-hole you put
all your wisdom, to bisect the
virgin house. Violence creeps into
the roses. They droop and bleed.

I will talk to burgundy-black
moon, not to leave footprints on
my face. My lips are going to
catch the stolen kisses.