The falling poem was in bruising gamble
of winter of troubled life,
bound to a staircase:
up and down, up and down,
on the rosette of grieving thighs.
From sunset to sunset
a moon rises in all its glory
as the night flows in crevices of thoughts.
Will you lift the veil
from the golden face and sacrifice the lamb?
The infinite was waiting to come out of crotch.
