A short poem.

Let us count the sandgrains on the beach.
We know little, daily less,
And if I reach
For your hand,
It will slip like sand
Through my weeping fingers…

The space in-between
The wall
And the washing-machine
Is small…

Wheels spin and dread unfolds,
The thump of the empty space is deep…

We all looked like whores this year.
On our knees

Small routines,
The nooses horizons hang upon…

There was once an angel who refused to fall
despite the sweet alluring call
He went on with his life
and death
and half-life…