EDITOR: STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Snowflake
One fine day, when you will see a single snowflake, it will not be a sign of winter coming, but of me being close to you.
Alzheimer’s –
the purest snow is nothing
but masked mud
Twisted destiny
The more people she surrounded herself with, the more enticing solitude became, and so she left. After years, I’m going to look for her. My path clings to the river and turns inland, to wear away into a sea of sand with burdock flowers, and scarlet dragonflies on its crests. Atop an old lighthouse, two storks chop up the sky. While looking for a house, I come across a simple shelter. In a mollusk shell, a trace of ash. Destiny darkened by the glowing sands.
inner cold –
to make a fire or a ladder
of the dry tree
Paraphernalia
This nun village has spread around the monastery as myrrh on a forehead. Some scent of incense shrouds me, as a door opens and an old green-eyed woman beckons me into her room filled up with icons and jam jars. By the window, a coffin which she bought in her 20s, according to custom, when she joined this community. As I wonder silently, she smiles, lifts the coffin lid and takes out a bottle of water and a few walnuts for me: Never know how long you have to go.
enforced night –
by the hollow window
a rope ladder
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu