Finish Smoking cold and leaves
flies on charred words.
By morning, the humble smell of leaves
he'll take care of the hot river.
Only the stupa with the dormant witch
a human will smell the air of the garden,
animal raw hoarse,
bee light,
slithered across the face
from an alien cloudless South.
Where souls do not burn at the stake,
and fight in a Minotaur hole,
entangled with thread —
about each other.
When would black garden see could,
what the sky is heading the ball,
over whose water turns white or dry.
To astringent pine needle
in the lumen of the branches pulled, how could,
at least a thread that binds souls.

Disclaimer: I just found these in my library. I do not have the rights to them,
I just them and decided to share them with you.

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