Stomah Pains Cold Drinks

My kiss was a grenade,
deep and open your mouth was

pink paper.
(Federico García Lorca)

write these lines in pink,
over the cup from your lips
defoliating my sadness in your hair
warm in your chest
water like corks in the shade.

Verses in pink on my back,
the infinite light of your eyes
drawing the paths of the night
the thorn that is stuck in the wind.

Verses in pink stuffed
like rain in my hands,
dying in the bowels of the Birds Eye
moss time.

Verses in pink
as silent laughter in this verse,
that slides into the eyes
who die in the spines of the winds.