Into Exile
cold wars
and silvery spoons
make me solemn
in the self-closing eyes
always priggish
as a desolate diver
I blindly follow
the northbound shoals
hoarse in the black iris
I'm a tipsy toad
howling in heaven
with frigid manners
resurrected again
in a parquet parlour
of colliding sighs
the highland highwaymen
set up bonfires
in instinctive phobia
of the uninvited mirage
rural gravestones
salute the lightning
with tremendous pride
still frivolous
over the glum expressions
during prohibition
I smile with a frown
when my chapped lips
touch salty chips
into exile
to shock, to astound
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