I flick my heart to the air


Or tails

I try by myself to guess:

My eyelid cannot be the edge of a balcony …

And this sparrow landing on the handle of the door

The handle made of an old rib

Just a confusion

The tale is open on the page of hope

And I am there

Opening my hands widely

Spreading my ten fingers like pins

To fix me down on the page


Whenever my thumb

Gets close to turn it over

I see its shadow

I thought it was an apple

Falling from the sleeve of one of the genies who live above

And it would hit my head and soak the tale with blood.

(from “An Angel Suspended on a Clothesline”)

4 thoughts on “Complaining

  1. A wonderful poem. Sparse and full of depth. I’ve read it half a dozen times now and come away with something new each time. Thanks for sharing. I’ll read on.

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