I’m afraid of knives curling around my neck:
ready for silence,
and humming birds gossiping about stolen grapes.
A smirk as they line up and
the line matures into a circle.
Oracles permit my surrender yet
defiantly mistake the spices and
reveal secret recipes.
A tune laments and the last drops evaporate
we sit on rented chairs and contemplate.
I’m afraid of crowded corners,
waiting cowardly for their revenge.
And graffities erasing themselves out of shame.
A spear through vocabulary of friends,
the best ones cry and some move on.
Cloaked dictators shake hands and walk on rubbles,
crippled pens twist and turn,
and a culture is created: they name it complete.
I name it K.
I’m afraid of knives curling around my neck:
ready for silence,
and cats leaking memories from refused rooftops.
I long to fall and notice dirty windows in the plunge
atrocities curtained,
and I fall,
I fall
and K remains.