Archive for September 18, 2014


Dust is us
Our scattered dead skin
Spread all over old pieces of furniture,
Looking the same, yours, mine, that of
The Greek lady who let us a room
And tried to rip us off,
Dust everywhere, not just hers
But also that of warriors, tourists,
Writers: everyone who ever stayed here
Who ever said foot in this Naxos place
Is spread over all the old furniture
And we all look the same
Whirling under the bed,
Us, scattered and forgotten.


The sea has mingled
With my past today,
Fiercely spitting out
Leftovers of its junket meal
In a brownish grey
While trembling air
Digested parts,
As it should be:
Lovers touches,
Reckless (always trying to be fair,
But reckless) prattle,
False assumptions,
Cherished letters.
You and me.

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