Smoke Signals

A severed hand, after 
the blast, working on a script 
writes about the 
musicality of blood. 

Blood of moon and trees; 
of poems and bees, 
contributing to making 
of republics of grass. 

The roots know the secret 
of god and grief of humanity. 
The sound ot truth resonates 
with the art of dying. 

Between the sun-and moon― 
under the sky sleeps a 
shimmering axe.