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Poem

you’re not adams apple 

the  fruits from tree of the knowledge 
of good and evil
in the middle of the garden of eden
in genesis

yet at you 
the round oranges of this afternoon-town 
i stare 

and my pate gradually 
becomes pregnant 

the  wind that comes after 
having a touch of your lips 
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead 

and my guava-leaf begins to melt 

thus my hardware-business is going 
into liquidation 

the physician to the king is telling 
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body 

used and used and used

your smile has not yet become 
stupid 

so from where the lamp-posts of the 
town start 

there are the cutlets  and the bolster 
they are not the only to utter the last words 

i’m too 
in this summer 
trying to  decorate 
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony 

if any soundless dew-drop comes 
to prepare and feed me 
my birth-day frumenty 

but i’ve no tongue 
at all 

all over the face there are only the eyes

and to the fate of my staring-at 
has ever so much blessings been available

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