[1]
When summer wind swung the door
through its whole arc

The mask fell from the nail
leaving and revealing
bones of air.
Such is the heavy weight,
the unbearableness of

Words
Being
Light.
Wherever tears fall,
glistening white,
on the open page
of night
they wound
they wound.
[2]
A rusty staircase wound
like a snake around a pole
Is how your memories spiral
up and down my spine.
None visits them anymore
none, not even me.




My Poems

al right, kundera makes an impression, nevertheless, spiraling memories, bones of air..eerily alert and yet the poem is nauseated and closing from the brilliance of its intermittent incandescence. Quite a s(h)ock!