I like to sleep very slowly
or not at all.
At night, in the impenetrable darkness,
just before dawn, I like to watch
my nails grow.
I like to sleep soundly,
like a bear under the thick three-month snow.
Outside everything is covered in ice
and moon reflections.
This is the winter of our short lives.
This is a land of plenty.
This is the silence of the lurking seconds.
And slowly, in this room, surrounded
by icy wind, everything that was “I”
turns into “us”.
The streets outside look like curved
oily snakes, fading out into tomorrow’s
My rib cage is the border through which
light is willing to pass undisturbed,
like a smuggler of dreams.
I feel the whole world under
my fingertips and inside my bones,
moving slowly as a sloth, always
toward something invisible.
The new day will come in less than
a minute. The laundry on the washing line
is frozen and the two suns of the bra
will bring the new spring.
A plane cuts through the dawn sky
with a hum, under the waning stars,
traveling to the end of the horizon.
The passengers sit inside the metallic twilight.
Their heads in a doze are lolling toward the rising sun
and out of the darkness and into the light.