bowing my head under the cobweb
I pass beyond the vault
rusty keys in my pocket
the wind slams the door behind

stuck between cold and warm
a hat hangs on a hook
nor too high neither too low
sour grapes slowly become sweet

I will touch nothing
walls and doors are soft
the bread is molding green potatoes sprout out white
only autumn apples stay reddish
a ray of sunlight is crawling among them
like a snake on moist ground
heels are trembling over it
bent knees are cracking

too much emptiness in my stomach and around
maybe it’s a Holy Friday today
and I will stay here another twenty years
not counting Sundays

Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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