Purple

Purple

Purple
Domestic Blues
Brother World
A Quotidian Morning, When
Sunday in Montsouris Park
The Urban Life
Melancholia eterna

These mornings, when I pass alongside Parisian fish vendors, I witness
blank, white, frozen men in the process of wage and capital, spreading out
fish fresh from the sea and just off the boat. The unraveled forms sparkle
in the sheen of coin and mother-of-pearl, luminous shocks of ice pounded
down in stalls, the clear light of January. I suffer their separate
deaths, their stared-through eyes, their void. Such jettisoned and mute
nakedness … so suddenly I need to feel my heart beneath my coat to
convince me who I am–my clean presence; my still warm, still life.

AuthorLiljana Dirjan
2018-08-21T17:24:05+00:00 June 1st, 1998|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 03|0 Comments