In honour of the Setsubun, and because today is not a good day for science.
I will wear my demon mask today
and throw my dying love into your garden.
The clouds will sing the psalms of demi-gods
buried in palliative hospitals.
And then again, my inner thighs
will toast their blood streams
in your honour, for all the dessicated seeds
uprooted in my winter-womb by mercy
of those who died before, and of my own
I will throw my agonising hopes at you
and dream you anew, cardboard face
of childhood past.