Peering, slit-eyed,
at the unwanted dawn.
The first touch is always
a startling revelation,
the second one generally
ignored as it, too, was
uncalled-for.
Singing like a velvet Elvis,
I spill my seed and
call it 'lovely'. Still,
I remain unfulfilled
Who can tell where the
machines have been?
When we can unwind,
twisting blind in the wind
The chimes ring softly
into the morning gray
A nuance or a catapult to
sling me forward into the day
Hide. Hush. Be still.
Something dread from the
cold distance approaches...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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