DOMESTIC CIRCUS Poem by Claudiu Komartin

I write only at night due to a painful disorder
urged on by a premonition of disaster
my voice soft as a millstone
grinding words in vain
before they can ever reach my hand

now that the paper has shrunk before my eyes
I'm writing in small letters disregarding punctuation
disregarding my body and the say filling up my larynx

I lie in wait
my life is pointless
if anything eludes my scrutiny

my father was an officer
even now his militant shadow terrifies me
crawling along the walls at daybreak

he's almost an old man now
he's still in good shape
he hardly ever scolds me these days
for being clumsy and undisciplined
it drove him nuts
that I didn't produce
that I poured my soul
into matters beyond his comprehension

I write only at night and this emboldens me
my cheeks searing
as if I'm lying in the snow
in Constitution Square

and watching Parliament burn.