Dust dancers and grief singers 
join together their hands on equinoxes, bargaining for love letters 
and digging new shrines.
I copy them in tobacco stains 
over the walls of a place 
where women with white eyes rest, 
like trees tore down by winds.
I have dried out my crippled words 
enough to be preserved 
for another century of ignorance, 
so that I can say 
shaving superstitions from 
the head of an astronaut 
fake landing on mars is 
not terrible as lying about 
god as a mother figure.
I have been pinching the breasts of him, 
to have a drop of milk 
to stop me from choosing death 
but he wrapped me 
in blue moon precipitation. 
I have been ringing the bells a little loudly, 
that it enchant forest cuckoos 
to stay silent than forming alliance 
over eggs that won't crack.
I have heard that 
death of a god is the birth of a poet ,
just like the death of a sailor 
is the birth of a myth.
When roads drown in heat waves, 
I want to conquer pluto , 
which has no sun, 
and kiss a flower which is 
a metaphor for my lovers mouth.
I want roses and rebellion, 
because counting graves 
won't make me 
an archaeologist or a mathematican.
To peep into the decayed heart
of a child won't make me 
a poet enough to feed my hunger.
To love my lover with all my heart 
won't make me a cat 
turning in the dreams , indicating good luck. 
But I reach for his hands sometimes, 
so that I can move quietly through the ruins.
And sometimes I light the lamp of ghosts
to turn their sorrow into dignity.

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