Poezja

The tibial spiking
now hurts.
The floaters on the dried bed―
 
of bones, speak volumes
of sand in eyes.
Pawns have disappeared.
 
The earth is wounded.
A snake climbs onto the pink lips
to know its crime.
 
The matter interacts wrongly
with radiation. Spectroscopy
fails up to the hilt.
 
On the spur of the moment
I ignite the shadow
of the space between us.
 
The miser starts counting the coins.