All the poems seem to have
fateful air and savvy stratagems
in there

sometimes too warm for a chilling flight
sometimes too hot for a straight fairytale
and sometimes the cold frame of your


flowing like a green-like kite
in somnolent contemplation
between the love-doors of aging
& maturity crisis.

These doors are a child’s drawing.
The entrance password is the
sharp, oneword-poem, that’s stuck in –

my mouth, economy of spit.

If poetry keeps
the balance between
reason and body,
as a great poet says,
you won’t find me

there yet.

His name is I.M.
and I’m not there yet,
room for a chosen few,
in a child’s drawing,
behind a lovedoor.

Puslenghea Bogdan
Pic: Claire Palmer

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