Letter
In the very same room
behind the doors
are my longing and your Photo
a pot of flower is my freedom
and sweaty loneliness…
My night confessions have a desert face….
the letter I wrote
is on its way to you…
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…can’t come back
You
cannot come back to me…
You are the one
who left on a Sunday night in July…
Even if I called hesitant
you would turn your eyes away
to the rose gardens of every color
but crimson…
Darkness of the Moon
Sun is up, and you’re gone.
You will not see the light!
I will be in worse sorrow than
the irresolute desert heat in your eyes.