* * *

My hands are autumn. They pray outstretched,

dream birds or maybe guys making off

with my sadness on their strong shoulders.

I do not like them. Darkness falls of irises

and outlines the final touch on the skin

and pentagram of love words seeps

into the mist and smell of love.

Heavenly shepherd

who some call the Lord threw me his curse:

to fall as a heap at the hands of the night

and to speak with unicorns. It does not get better.

On the contrary. I caw. And my verse caws.

I lost silence in constant pursuit of ghosts.

The sunset melted, flowed like rain

and there was light even for thieves of love.

They are strange. They refract faith and inspiration

and leave me empty. Now I will cast all clovers and horseshoes

and my hands will be spring.