In the museum of land mines,my acquaintance fans her wings.Outside the sparrows catch fire.A tree falls to its knees.I become the sudden murderer,unable to recognize the radishesof my hands.
The dictionary shudders. Again I cannot bealone. What is left of beautyI sop up with a napkin, believingit a limited supply. My only reading materialgives in to the blaze.
And now I burn the legsof the chair, lest they touchthe ground. I would give anythingfor a glass of water.But there are only dirty spoonsand a shoestring I must walk acrossto reach the other cornerof the room.
I have forgotten about the bedsin the neighbouring house.The suitcases underneath crammed with shadows.There is a drought in my throatwhen I think of them.When I answer before they can ask.
