Passive remnants
dried fruit and
perches
the distinctive noise
and perfume
of night flower
fresh cherry tomatoes
across the floor.
It was a Sunday.
I was swimming in the
sky
a motionless gravity
sustained.
Floating words
are still surviving
all this life
and all its death
echoes heard during
early evening sleeps.
It is a Sunday
it seems.
Your echo
sounds magnificent
and afterwards
outstandingly is
forgotten.
Passive remnants
the
touch of repetitions
like earth and sky
or fire and water.
Let us dance now
to the sound of your
voice
before this dream is
woken.
Your voice
inhabiting every
other patch
of the mind’s sky
alike a thousand
little pieces
of a something
scattered and lifted
by the clouds…
It is a Sunday
as it should be
the paintings of dead
nature
the readings of some
pleasure
indolent strolls and keeping
diaries -
I am dancing with the winds
your temper’s words
and dusky voice.
10
September 2017,
Athens.
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