Atomic Day

 

I stop at a forgotten desk
in the intercity bus station
and edit letters to all those past and present
temples of stone

light a cigarette or a candle
they both smell carnal –

a driver checks tickets
one passenger pushes in
though the cobwebbed rear mirror –

to me, dear dictator, such an atomic day
begins
to look more and more
like happiness, complacency –

I start to believe everybody can see me
holding a timing grenade –

I read again

swallow a handful of earth
for each word.

 

 

Maria Stadnicka

 

 


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