Poezja

The way your gaze
runs 'round the room
and lights on me
and not by accident
I dare assume 

Makes my heart
pick up its pace,
skip and...why
it might be said
to even race.

In my bad ear
a crackle of static
makes me wonder
whether something's up
in this old attic

And makes me for 
the moment sure
I have not lingered
far too long
at this here fair;

So that in spite
of ruin and wrack 
I can't be blamed
if I reflect
and send it back.