That was unscarred night.
The full moon was rising...

Mooneater, I am my poem:
fantasy of words...

A whisperer with its begging bowl
wants a moon in alms...

Rhetoric had a theme
like crab-grass to destroy the lawn...

Unmasked inside,
we play the games of a torch...

Behind your face
was cleaver...

Today I am drunk with pain due to fragility
of reason...

Looked naïve, but he was
elevating himself on the heap of lights...

Come down gingerly.
The deep snow is melting...

Waiting for a prickly path
at crossroads...

The wind writes a name on the clouds
and sun wipes out the letters...

The most wanted moon
was writhing...