Sharp Love

Sleep is drifting across the tall grass
singing lullabies to the snakes.
They are waiting.

Crows are unhappy with the color
in the sky. Black is their religion.
They are waiting.

Desire is a dream shaped like a serpent
that will rise out of the moonlit water.
It is waiting.

When a forest decides to burn, it gives its blood
back to the sky, its flesh to the earth.
Then it waits.

Once I slept in the rain beneath a leafless tree
in a graveyard. All of us were dead but me.
We were waiting.

There is a mother whose love is so sharp
she would plunge it into the heart of her child.

It is time.

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