Mirror

Passing the main railway station I am looking at Zrinjevac glittering in a sudden winter: crystal, precise, illuminated and cold, like the wind that swirls the last autumn leaves, I am walking and thinking how happy I am. I am happy that poetry is on a good path, because it is getting closer to what it really is: an esoteric cottage industry. Arriving at a poetry evening, devoted to my book, I feel gratitude towards the ones who came, gratitude devoid of my obligation to them and their obligation to me, because I am not pondering over their reasons; I have not informed anyone that I’ll be there, said nothing to my family and friends. I almost failed to reveal the reason of my going out late to my dearest. I am simply glad that poetry is on a good path, because it is getting closer to what it really is: an esoteric cottage industry. And everything keeps repeating. And everything keeps repeating. And everything keeps repeating. And everything keeps repeating. And everything keeps repeating. Present. Perfect. Poetry.