Poetry is non-communication.
A way of saying things crookedly.
Never about love.

I hear there is a cross-fire
between our bodies.
Is it revolution? Love?
Say nothing.

Everything is possible. I alone am impossible.
The sea is full of fish.
There are men who go to the sea
as if they walked down a street.
They are ever content.

Suppose that an angel of fire
swept across the face of the land,
and the men who sacrificed to her
asked for pardon.
Not peace.