A cloud of down feathers hovers
about the city
like the nakedness of the right hand
touching the left.
Two letters on weather,
patterned in the form of kisses,
ushered in a moonlight that scalds
the shell-pocked Holiday Inn.
Someone agreeing to a kiss after death
is trying to stand up where mothers
taught their children to fall to the ground.
An acute memory of two kisses
situated between two other kisses
made a trench in my forehead.
Dustings of mud disintegrated
on the bed.
If a mountain is to appear
when we are willingly considering war
of an evening he slowly raises
his open hand and holds it above his eyebrows,
light blue being the infantry colour.