The Wind Has a Bitter Cherry Taste

the house painter tossed by mistake
his bucket full of paint
over my bedroom’s mirrors

a white night stretches from my window
to the neighboring motel
my body is like a young comet
imprisoned between shadows and half-shadows
carrying dark stripes afar

I touch the mirrors with my fingertips
feeling them gliding
in an out of tune violin dance
in their hunger for genuine shadows
like blue Medusa eyes

each moment there are many others alike
I can’t retrieve myself entire
swirling on my heels for quite some time
my eyes are running away
like two wheels dropping from their axle
my lips are taking a heart’s shape
with fluttering beats
my blood is leaving a trace of vapor
on the opaque glass

now I’m silent
I open the window without prints
towards the walls outside
letting a drought wind
flood over

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Categories: My Poems in 2010 | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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