NEWTON'S ORANGE: INFINITY Poem by Ewa Lipska

They already were.

They fight a losing battle of dates.
Blurred. Surly clouds in the background.

In the Theater Hollywood
a train of abandoned chairs whistles.

The remains of films
still breathe through the screen's lips.

"But Venice means happiness's burial
ground to me so much that I don't feel up
to returning"—wrote Marcel Proust.

We just are.

In love's globalization
we succumb to sensuous market forces.
Speculative fireworks.
The corrupt bed linens of Shakespeare
in the national theater.

A city of muscular stadiums
sticks to us.

A pirated copy of welfare.

A wilted rose's penitence
doesn't tell us anything yet.

Arrhythmia of infinity.
Gigabytes of memory.

At dawn
a bigoted breeze shivers.

Norton antivirus software
scans our lungs.

All around
the broken glass of frost.

You are yet to be.

On a balcony a woman
a cloud resembling a kiss.

New Year's Eve night is trembling.

The twenty-second century.
The twenty-third century.
The twenty-fourth century.

We are connected by
a dye works of sunrises and sunsets.
A polishing shop of magic, words and fire.

They divide us forever.