the plane landed
after six attempts.
the storm was waning,
the strong wind blew the leaves
and stuck them against the windows
of the airport building.
he stood outside, in the wind,
next to the man with the piece of paper
and my name
in cyrillic.
fireworks of hair,
brutal look
and melancholy.
primozh was also there,
pale after four
unsuccessful landings.
then crna gora hotel,
his piercing laughter
cut into the blood stream,
the concrete,
the silence of socialist construction.
without other participants
as a prologue of nights of long dialogues,
the glue of the eyes,
narcissus,
epic pathetics.
a bottle of Jameson under the table,
a masqued bottle up on it,
next to the window with heavy
brocade curtains.
he landed yesterday,
before the rain on the horizon,
the shalow horizon
at the foot of the plateau.
deep in his doping
we were the postament and threshold.