I’ve kept my vow of silence for a month,

or four.


Itches in the larynx like the prisoner’s file

and smells like years before

when we sat down on the road

and sang the Iceberg song.

[One stretching throat

if well tight,

can hold a soul for a life

(perhaps, even more).]


-they have waited for NOTHING-

I can hold a hand

but it never feels enough:

atoms buzzing and heat convection

just won’t

keep them

any warm.

I can left me for dead and keep smiling

like everything’s according to plan.

I can say sensible nonsense

in this soft

mumbling tone.

I can bury alive my mother tongue.

I can cut and stick old words.

I can even call it p-O-e-T  T-r-Y

I can, I cannot let them know

about the Iceberg Song.












seen my future.


My  future, staring from the patterned wood.



(the tree rings say I’ll be thinner,

you should start worrying, too).

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