Saturday, February 7, 2009


All about is a wound,
and she murders
the air in her way,
not sparing the flash
of what will glue us forever;

but this is not love;
there was no love in Rusitu,
just rain, rain, rain
and teachers' involuntary bankruptcy;

but she had a bank in her heart,
vaults locked by inexperience,
her mind the diamond
you dared not touch
unless you knew
insurance that protected the sun.

The wound on the ground
I have not walked in decades,
Her endless walking
what in time should slow you down,
because unless I give this canvas back
to the trees, that smile
will continue to torture me
and ask why I never
opened an account....

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