THE LIGHT SINKS LOW
Here, the light sinks low
as a meandering river,
into the threshold of my windows
when I bake half-grown weeds.
My nails are black with smoke.
I clean the air around me
with my overgrown hair.
My kitchen sink is on the other side
of the green balcony.
It tells me the story of a dead end lane
winding down the path of trees
like the retreating song of the seagulls.
Here is the place
where I meet with the falling stars.
Their passion is that of a red sun,
curious for the night to dissolve
into the magnitude of slumberous madness.
I am inhabiting this land
since the beginning of the last century,
collecting feathers from the flying birds
like a jigsaw puzzle.
Inside the blue moon
A boat ferrying rivers
Crosses the horizon.
