As the flower falls from the window sill
She enters the room. With the fringe of her hand
She makes a gesture to be still
And not to pretend.
She also covers the phone with a napkin
As if it was dead.
She is a weirdo. You adore that.
She’s a jingle for joy.
You would join her selfie
In a way that it must
Seem the grey light of your soul
More than the black hope of your lust.
Sit still. Although you yearn for words
Of all the crap flowing through past
There’s a prophecy that toils and squirms-
So precise. And the last.
Февраль 2019