*
I will close this page
and put it away
I will have a look
at such light
lingering
I will stand eventually
get up and displace
myself in a busy store
drunk in sounds and souls
I will pick you up
later when this
wind ceases
one more time
running uphill
.
.
From the collection “The London Hours”, 2012.
.
*
something to do with measures
unknown
to others the length
of my despair whether is
it by nature, mine
or a not understanding of facts
of the jokes
among men, their secret bets
their sudden shoulders
and all was lived
and built, all that had an essence
to dust them off
to cough them up
it’s all forgotten
at once.
I don’t seem
to understand other’s
measures, the sense of
their steps, it’s long
far from me.
.
.
.
From the collection of The London Hours, 2012.
.
*
routine is good
a shelter to my heart
a time of secret
tenderness
went to swim in the morning
new beauty welcomed me
piercing the sound
underwater
large the company
joyful exile
.
.
.
From the collection The London Hours, 2012.
.
*
white wellness
welcomed within
.
quietness
a silence seek
.
nearly no movement
a mussel in a shell
.
I hear love
surging
.
if I could
stay forever
.
fractions
.
.
.
From the collection The London Hours, 2012.
.
.
The London Hours
.
No more us and I, and them
Night time nearing at 1pm
No wind chill, no chills,
Remote coldness.
.
This winter isn’t like
The one you handed me
In colored paper
And ribbons I was excited to untie,
It will be the usual
Gloom of day-spair,
Of no directions,
No sense.
.
Look right, look left,
Mind the gap, do not cross,
Where to, no more zebras,
Just hyenas and victims,
Many of us.
.
I know you not,
You took up a different passport,
Broke the legs of time and sunk
Somewhere where I do not find
Air to breath and there are
No kisses to revive me.
.
It’s the tallest solitude,
No eyes to lay on,
No tiptoeing naked,
No coughing the bodies against,
No nightlong reviving.
.
No snow, no strolls, no fog,
No sleepover nestling.
No, no, no, no, no.
Yes, that’s all.
.
.
annamosca 