by Nijole Miliauskaite

Nijole Miliauskaite

the fragment of dream in my heart
is a shard of red glass
through which
we could watch the clouds
a tall transparent tree
a ladder leaned against a fence
a gentle and solemn
evening sky
the house is dark dark
your window is dark
a red ball in the faded grass
a crumbling wall
night carefully
closed the door
no wind
no sound
it is only
a butterfly of night
dead on a white leaf
and you
want to be a hieroglyph
in ancient writings
I am again that stammering child
in the dark room, circled
by ghosts
by incomprehensible fear
I say your name
to myself
syllable by syllable
I touch your forehead
a trembling
compass needle
I turn toward the north
your world is
endless angry unadorned

Last updated January 14, 2019