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


the seal

sails like a boat

on my dark blue

ink tampon.

Just a few centimeters away

                         from the edge of the world.




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.

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