Poetry

Sitting between the knees, 
I am being bathed by intense anxiety 
and fear of harsh light. 
 
A canopy of doubts 
confronts the dignity versus anarchy 
for a watchman 
who will not dare open- 
 
the vault of truth. A fatal 
ire of imagination puts him 
to dire need of salvation. 
 
Was I moving from the wrong 
side of history in my zodiac 
to change the drooping eyelids? 
 
Death opens my door for a shortwhile 
and then walks away 
after watching the transparencies. 
 
 
•
 
The masks come and masks go. 
Cracks do not disappear. 
Either you destroy me, 
 
or my inside will have 
a singingbird, 
closing the golden window. 
 
The hardening of atereies. 
Tension was rising 
around the absence. 
 
Who was the arbitrator 
between dog and lamb? 
The weather was ripening black currants.