The Room 7 Poem by Farhad Showghi

Like a summer cloud, I bend my hand or let my
brow down slowly on a thread without speaking. I
thus drive onwards, ‘til east and west become itinerant
blending through the walls. I'm exhaling now,
and the city stands on my window sill. The light's
changed now, farther off, quite untouched by the clamour
of rooftop colours. Getting faster, I move
a chair, throw back the dark red blanket or
carry a coffee mug through the door. Then I begin to
run and look at the curtain folds. Soon I'm standing
in the entrance hall, in a swarm of shadows. Here
I choke on the wee word today, get still more agile,
whip my head about, start up a second round.
Sun's just passed, pulling across the horizon. Yet still my
mouth remains a cave, a ball that's caught
between east and west. I pull it up on a thread
without stopping. Am already back in the
room, pulling it further, opening my lips and pulling
it quickly along my tongue.

Translated by Brian Currid