A Dying Hymn

Your face had only the 
eyes, when you flew backwards, 
hovering like a humming bird. 

There was no absolute, 
hoisting the beheaded god. 
In transience I will meet you 
in air and shed the body. 

In mouth-hole you put 
all your wisdom, to bisect the 
virgin house. Violence creeps into 
the roses. They droop and bleed. 

I will talk to burgundy-black 
moon, not to leave footprints on 
my face. My lips are going to 
catch the stolen kisses.