Poezja

You were dressed up
to burn. Tears had memory
pure as gold.

The ache of standing
in flames of tongue, to wash
the hands and underbelly.

Where would you
find the green words ready
to weave the silk?

that was my poverty
to mine the glass and mercury.
There was no inside,
no outside.

Give me the fever
as hot as moon, when you
harvest the sun beams.