scarecrow poetics/essays

mornings
wistful streets
people walking slowly
like wandering water-lilies
it hears their
arrhythmic
steps

for nothing wistful is
like that
like tropics

someone touches you
embraces you
loves you
it is not the end
the end is
someone else touches you
someone a third a fourth
a fifth and so on

You are the guilty one Alice
what did you say?
A little cream in the spring's dish
some prelude oh oh
Once upon a time there was a little heart
which became a big heart,
I said You are guilty
come on, confess you
at a quarter to ten
amidst a whizzing calm
a glass of wine it was red, wasn't it?
I don't remember, really I don't mind
How don't you mind?
I dropped it I didn't drink
You didn't drink
I didn't drink why should I
when the seconds stayed uncounted out
in the missing time
am I right?
I don't know
about the time I don't know Alice
And I'm not the guilty one
Then it's simply ended in Nitza
later on I knew
it has begun again
with the orange-red bird's singing
and the blossoming blacktorns
Once upon a time there was

Rositza Pironska © 2006.