Don’t you agree
with my ability to loosen up
on our times in no night?
A river thing was flowing
through foliaged silence.
In deranged hour of the neck tie,
you throw up obscenity on road.
What?
Chicken hearted?
Sickle cell anemia?
Goat rioting before sacrifice:
the tiny feet will drop from heaven
to walk in blood and bless you
for dispatching the head of unlove.
The night hawk butchers the hope,
if the baby owl cries again.
Afraid,
I am going to take a flight to the yellowing moon.
