The words I would like
to write
loop a festive noose for me

A few hours till morning
another few hundred Inquisitors
will be born

but we don’t care

we dream of the sublime nuns,
we keep writing as their burgundy lips
kiss the archangels in icons


I was born with seven fingers on my right hand
but only one remains
to record these deeds

I loved seven women,
but only one was regal –
in her memory I don’t sleep for seven days,
while my soul hunches in reverence

I wrote seven perfect poems,
but burn them all:
all I could save from the fire
was one unique word

Seven noose dangled from the skies.
I tolled seven bells
but heard only one

I wandered through seven lives:
they all turned to soot
you carefully
brush off your coat


In the grave of this line I feel most at home
alone with the yellow mole

From time to time, the robed nun
presses her lips against mine
we recall those who are gone:
they leave us their rust-flaked handcuffs.

in the grave of this line,
among the monastic scribes,
among lemon trees, cedars and palms,
we resume ecstasy


Poplars shed their ice in the windows
of the darkened homeless shelter

They siphon the dusk
from the irises of horses

Last night
„Madonna and Child”
fell off the wall

God is the final metaphor
in a minefield

No one speaks about
the stashed baggage,
no one speaks about
the razor discovered in snow

(Traduceri de Mihaela MOSCAIUC si Michael WATERS)