Poems
Written Out
In the winter he made
a pencil out of his finger
and sheets out of the wind.
On the cold he was writing
till his hand froze stiff.
All letters have vanished;
did anyone read?
Nonetheless these orbits subsist;
pendent fables over the snowy field.
Travel bureau
Look,
│
the seal
sails like a boat
on my dark blue
ink tampon.
│
Just a few centimeters away
from the edge of the world.
Fall
We are not angels;
it was known...
Our wings won’t grow
-was there any other suspicion?
Have we lately become
so superstitious as
to deal
with the Demon?
Since fall is flying,
we expect
the change of times
to clear our vision.