Poetry

Let go the nightmares
and oneness,
and climb down the deep―
stairwell to find your image,
in seething rage of quiet water.

It was not very hot
to raise the fever of native pain
in your legs. The delicate
heights of golden peaks you
won, slumber― when you discover yourself.

Poem matters in black ink,
on white paper which bloats
in self praise. The world
trembles in earthquakes of sermons.
Fauna and flora are turning back.

Enough to snuf the guts.
You don't love the parting.