Picking Up The Threads

No attachment with the 
alma mater. You have 
eaten away all the grass. 
Bounteous breast was empty. 

Like a nun, dropping 
the robes, the moon was rising. 
Would you meet her in dark? 

The night wanted to come 
and sit in your lap. 
Let us play with cowries. 

You know my life was 
never in the hands of god. 
I was a walking tree. 

So simple were the means 
of death. Nobody knew 
who was me.