Poetry

The things which did not brother you, 
like crossing the crowd unspoken. 
Long pauses between the questions, 
halting silences between frenzied wails. 
 
Flesh stayed untouched by hand, 
center of controversies. 
I still speak noiselessly, for urgent whispers, 
time for exit has come. 
 
The fog now deepens in eyes 
and then a cloud bursts. 
Trickling, when you bend backward 
to wet the floor of grass, 
which stiches the earth. 
 
Winds will not expose the naked skeleton 
consciousness now hiccupps 
crumbs fall from the table. 
It was not me 
It was not me.