Poetry

I will call you
in a moon night-through
a fragile letter,
for extracting the end of beginning
to do a Houdini
to escape from the straitjacket
of your own commitment.

Decades on-
the house still carries the smudges
on the walls, where you
wrote dreams in vermilion
and later on singed yourself out-
to become disfigured.

For whom you laid seige,
your silence, becoming a song? A sculpted mutiny to
collect the thin bones asking
the moon to send more light.
Timeless a death waits in the shadows
for a fat answer.
I will spread the salt.