I read your inner thoughts
and remain unimpressed
like tin under halted hydraulics.

Pure poetry put in play
exists in the shade of flowers—
behind beauty
lies the bed of chaos
like a necrotic dowry.

You, there, in rose-tinted glasses
make narrow passes
on by—
biases as astigmatic
and yet astrophotography
could not scope
the tiny filaments
in desolate abysses
I plant my roots in