Yellow

is not for sale 

the burning may feel fatal

we are fruits that look like apples

common light explains, how one 

can laugh, and in a moment, cry

undergrounded by ants, sort of burial 

a hard transparency, when you-lose 

the ones you love, the ones who have 

ridden, above clouds, made of stones 

Your fool heart.

I have been above your hands

Curving wind, its dark tunnels

Watered sky, zero stars, none

Public ditches, from your mouth

To mine, fresh mildew

A kind of love that screeches 

Laying owl eggs in an almost 

Nest of hate, why do I, why do you

Restrain, the abundance of our tongues

Your words so approximate to mine

Taking pulse from nakedness, to want

Wanting to print it all; like a rapid heart