In the fevered pulse of seconds
there is no place for a drowning word.
I push my way toward it through
the barbed wire of houses.
It flees, and the sunset grows sterner,
reluctant to let me pass.
Again and again, I search the sky
for some kind of fracture—
but escape is misplaced.
Somewhere near the warm pulse
there is a place for me too.
In the fevered pulse of seconds...
© Copyright: Даниэль Зорчин, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125013003343
Свидетельство о публикации №125013003343
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