Sunday Becomes Lost Here

/, Blesok no. 84/Sunday Becomes Lost Here

Sunday Becomes Lost Here

I Had No Home
The Boat That Brought Me
Sunday Becomes Lost Here
The Forth

Behind the face that resembles yours
Old names disappear
Blood has crumpled snap-shots
And the copper bird’s wind
Seems to have worn my desert
Over my pull-over.

I’m not naked
Sometimes words are lost in my coughing
And so is the frothy moon
In the glass

This journey always spinned round my tongue
And my veins hid nothing from death
To draw calligraphic footsteps
Summer had confessed me
This crumpled green fuzz on fingers of ice
Wave was beautifully ebbing and flowing like love

Sometimes I miss the boat
That brought me here
And here before winter’s eyelids
My witnesses are this time-worn sky
And a suitcase that hides my blue profile.

AuthorAzita Ghahreman
2018-08-21T17:22:49+00:00 July 1st, 2012|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 84|0 Comments