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Maria Mitea Aug 2021
i feel you

in the pores

the air sneaks in -

like a skilled thief
enters and exits

trying-to-stop-a-pirouette-of-smoke

(i admire the wisdom of smoke)


dizzy

we can't find the heels

without noise

falls on its hind legs (like a horse) -

from right to left
we do our best,
we try -
on the tips, and again anew

first breath, second, third ...

last -

the sound of a trumpet falls in sourdine

lips-freeze-in-words -



we breathe in a traffic roundabout
the sleeping thoughts wake up in the corner of the eyes -
at the center
a statue is playing the statue game
in a flight -

we live in a bird that receives first aid breath -

is not in a hurry to live, nor to die,

(it is much more pleasant to breathe beak to beak) -

greedy pores
are waiting for an open lip
of the lion mouth flower

*

under the window, the spry rain cleans

is washing the leaves -

crumbs fall into the wet grass

opened pores

are breathing

the fresh morning air -

(déjà vu)

it smells like october

— The End —