el reloj de arena
estrangula el desierto entero
piedra en la arena
arena en la piedra
ambas piedra y arena
lo discontinuo y el insomnio
estrangulados
se deshacen las horas
una a una
se deshacen los instantes
uno a uno
he’s feeding on my sadness
take a deep breath he says
// and I don’t like names//
take a deep breath he says
bianca
before we dive into this
new skin
covering our wings
// but I promised this would not be a poem
about angels
wings
sky and not even clouds//
we’ll use straws and make bubbles
until we’ll be ready for surface
find our way
eyes
say hello // hello// as the air crushes
the coffee will taste the same
the blue chair she sat in
will stay blue
her PC screen – darkened for a while
her pictures – gone
people will chit chat in lower voices about the same things
money/hair/kids/grit/turkeys
the delivery boy will bring the mail
at 11:00 AM sharp
babies will cry until their mothers will feed them
mothers will moan until their babies turn will come
some managers will keep planning targets
some employees will keep ignoring them
some will loose a key from their drawers
The mornings of old times
are dead,
the dream gets on the tram
along with the evening
and it's over.
A sadness on stilts
walks through the town...
I hear it arriving at the corner
grinning to me.
Et pourtant il disait quelque chose.
Il parlait. On se parlait. Ses mots étaient de plus
en plus rares.
Il parle. La nuit tombe d'un mot à l'autre, de
syllabe en syllabe.
Il voit les objets. les couleurs disparaître,
s'écouler dans leurs ombres. Il les regarde
s'effacer, il les regarde de plus en plus
intensément.
Seul le blanc résiste au noir.
Qui s'amasse.
Jusqu'où
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