In the town of Meldwaen
the agenda drifts out to sea.
It is raining this afternoon,
I pull my semened penis from my blanket.
The houses are made of stone and sand.
You can smell it from the windows burning,
garlic, and oil, and flowers.
The agenda sits on a shelf
by a kitchen-fire burning,
flames are laughter and humanity.
One male rolls the flour of rice bread.
Two females look at each other.
One has wrinkles from the sides of her eyes.
The houses are made of sand and stone.
No one is a servant. All of these are lovers.
Only the male goes to stare upon the sea
alone
when the evening stars are rising
and breathes.
His bones are made of sand and stone.
novamartinpoetry.com 