Next to the whorehouse

is a bar. How many desires

drown within another?

the sky grows dark in the rain;

I straighten my hat afraid

I will be misunderstood.

Somewhere in the distance

a monk sings without remorse

about the end of love.

Nowhere exists a river

deep enough to wash away

what I must now give up.

In fire passion’s refined;

a body does not leave a mind.

(April 21, 2022)