A thirsty town fails, harvesting the moon,
and turns into a vast lake of tears.
They were fighting for their right to remain
poor and hungry. It was a fractured
amnesia in the pit of flesh.
Was it a pink rose? No one had planted
a kiss on the lips of a thorn. An unbuttoned
triangle snaps the cold and opens the thighs
of a tulip valley. Drop by drop honeydew
dances into a hairy lap.
The shooting stars go into trance, multiply
the intimate minutes and indulge in
sprouting the horns. The longest night feels
betrayed and beseeches foremothers to
conceive again.
