by Peycho Kanev
Under my roof there’s a ceiling
full of forgotten memories.
Turning the knob of the radio-
it’s not working, only static.
I need some quiet music. Now!
Today I can hear the walls move
as time slips by
beneath my elbow and the table.
I want to live my life as a spider
or a bee, not caring for anything
in the world. It is only Tuesday after all.
I am nothing,
and I am perfect in my nothingness.
Time slowly pours out of
my empty wine glass.
And I am myself again!
What is this thirst inside us all,
that makes us ache, even for the word?
Can we breathe the calendar in and out
with all our days when we will be forgotten?
Last night I dreamed of ancient Greek gods,
and today I think of something more
pleasurable, like grapes and wheat.
When I dust my clocks, I am very careful.
They speak to me in hush voices, but I answer No!
The hours pretend to be my brothers,
alluring me in their fossil forgetfulness,
making me work too hard on these poems.
But I am not alone.
Her skin is under my skin,
the sheets are our umbilical cord,
and the tattoo on her soul is in my throat.
And her thoughts chase me around the clock’s dial,
begging me to finish this poem.
So, my friends,
I pour fresh time in my glass for you
and drink it down.
Let’s grow old!