it is curfew outside a hazy morning

in the garden hiding behind the empty

streets lined by naked trees


it is the season of anxious skies


sitting on the dry dust with

the clouds falling on the blackness

of my coffee I realize that

I haven’t spoken for two moons


my silence is a thorn in my throat


this morning I am wondering

what would now what would

this moment morph into

if you were here


I wouldn’t be that dead I know


we would listen to Bach talking

about how his concertos suit

the cruel clouds swimming

in the silvery skies


it is the time of time already gone


now my mornings are made of

two rotten leaves – one for each

sleeping hungry under my breasts







What are you looking for?