Eggs went freezing in the sap.
Lips of moon were hot...

Your window
was very small...

This kitsch
makes you hollow...

Stammering quarrel
with classical fluidity...

Let it remain
ovarian pure. After strangulating...

A patch on my shirt
was growing...

Your body in mud pack
in line of fire...

He did not want anything
after the sex and death of a protagonist...

Seizing a chance in
a trice, in one dark September...

In the stand-off
between stolen history...

He did not want to climb the spiral helix,
a son will be born without him...

He had tied the brown thread on the pole
relieving the spirits from trees for the start...