The Wound of Hate - for the president elect
The Wound of Hate Your smile hurts, so does your voice and the sea in which you bathe, your ashes and your body. The mourning seed I feed with fire that is my currency, this long, amorous nightmare. And, how to tell, tell you that I have closed eyes if at the end of eyes, I keep the almond and the broken election. How do I keep quiet when there are halved doves on fields and fields of blood.