from “Edges”

/, Blesok no. 59/from “Edges”

from “Edges”

Third Pagan Poem
The Slit of the Dream
The Memory of the Landscape

we both wake up as pagans for whom the world
is no longer beautiful, remnants of nights, the great time immemorial
of passion are but wild blackberries on the edge of the city,
the dawn – but the slime of darkness on the window panes
and mirrors. fragile are the memories of fulfilled agreements,
notchy are the thoughts of those unfulfilled.
in between, but a bare forest of absence,
above it the sleep still trembles fresh
with heavenly greenery and birds that churr
in a rhythm equally
understandable and incomprehensible,
calming and tempting,
blissful and arduous

2018-08-21T17:23:04+00:00 May 10th, 2008|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 59|0 Comments