A delicate touch
fingertips turn green to gold...
Xanax in the blood
screams...
There was obsession, to wash your
hands again and again...
The night poem
crucial...
it's a burning hole
in my peripheral...
You were different from
others, away from home and hypocrisy...
Cobwebs glisten with dew
As morning sun wakes...
Night blinks.
Light sits under the door...
Salt-of-the lips.
You never know, how it hurts...
Wearing the red bandanna,
you tried to manipulate the bedrock...
In searing heat, on
the fern path...
My little dirty moon,
why were you hiding...