I write to you
when my poetry is rhyme.
I write to you
when my poetry is ill.

I write to you
in moments of style.
and in moments
when all style stands
still.

I write to you
on cubic balconies
dangling from loud
and misty skies

I write to you
from men-infested markets
buzzing with cumin,
toenails and flies

I write to you
before picking up my pen,
and after putting it down
for good

And in between these moments,
I feed these letters
to  mad chimneys and
starving wood.

All sensors,
but they sense you not.
your sensibility
got drowned
in that parking lot.

I offer my spine
to the midnight couch
And my trousers
to the stone-cold floor
I drown all patience
in Saturday’s wine.  
And maim my poetry
until
it is
no more.