Friday, June 27, 2014

Coins against milk


I sit under the fan
Detesting its rotation
Touching my hair
Detesting every swing

The door stays open
For the view
Into the neighbour’s
Scented prayer room

Bare walls and a clock
Under the window sleeps a park
Stretching its tongue
Into my womb

I watch fathers walking with sons
I watch women, I watch the gardener
I stay behind the metal barren
I watch

The little shop at the corner
Is obsessed with taping customers
Coins against milk
The sound of metal

There is no art here
There is no silence
There are only blades
and cows giving milk