They promised a Turkish dinner
and talk of apertures over kebabs.
I slept through the deadline.
Solitude over sanguinity.

—–

Is there a point to it all?
The flirting with unruly light,
the sudden showers of weak words
only prolong the inevitable.

—–

Why this endless doubt?
A circular style without conclusion
and a shallow air of civilization gnaw
at the narrow end of confidence.

—–

Yesterday, I saw waves of purple clouds
move towards the Southern shores.
Behind them dusk had ensnared the sun
in her tomb of discarded light.

—–

Everyone is writing these days,
even my hair to my surprise,
short curls spelling out Shakespeare!

—–

The best place to be born they said.
Right now indeed they added. Fools!
What do they know? This country
still loves the taste of turpitude.

—–

To carve an idea with words,
tease out its texture with an adjective
most precise as the noun watches
from a throne held by the articles,
is to be a sculptor of solitude.

—–

Let us leave these words to the safety
of compromise and go drown my doubt
in a puddle of condensed conversation.