Poezja

Between life and death 
a photo finish race 
will decide the relationship. 
 
There was intoxication 
at heights. Your throat had 
become hoarsed, sliced 
after a scream. Matchsticks 
were thrust in the 
gnawed mound of kneaded 
flour. The kitchen 
was going to explode. 
 
Barehands you were 
picking the black beans; 
parting me lip by lip 
caressing me thumb by thumb.