First encounter was skimpy
unleashing a terror
of tales. I will not find the
perfect body of a poem.


Remember,
the salt lake, where you were
drowned one day in the eyes
of the needle.

It was an ode for the failed
prophecy which predicted
the fall of an author
in the ravines of jealousy.

A trampled butterfly exudes
the yellow fumes. Meanwhile
you can draw a nude on
the road for bystanders.