Poetry

Someone is whispering to me
about the chaos
of intangible memory
our shadows hidden in Warsaw
by a Milosz library
near a lemony canary in its cage
as seen in the sunshine
at the edge of a wine glass
left to me by grandmother
my guitar standing in silence
near the serene reading room
waiting to be played
by a visiting exiled poet
full of suspicion
murmurs at his own fate.