silvija - 24. Oktobris 2007

our feeble broke hour-glass lodger human pain; in bold

this is autumn after all
black is the color of our true love's hair
in all the rest I'm thoroughly deluded

but that's too many strings of words, from too much of it
my sickness is this horrible length and rumbling of my song

just a worn tool, at the far end, before the wall,
of cooly self-denying language
we know not any silence, not on the cards, that tardy joker casually redeems
and saves no situation

trying to sound less foreign to your native swamp
quite all there is