Clockwise

the old church gate is a heart growing bigger

through which blood passes in a thin stream

windy rains whipped the bricks

there is no more key

you must strain yourself to raise it a little

a sunflower wheel stuck on the wall

 

at sunset bats fly like hot arrows

whistling near my ears

stars foam didn’t quench the fire yet

I am certain it will be so many

that I will become a feather easy to be blown away

 

I’m wiping a blind wing’s trace on my front

returning towards the entrance

stepping firmly on the ground

near a cross I picked  four threads

of basil growing wild

Author's Note

Reviews

[pumpkin head]

very nicely written and expressed, deep read but nicely done

[Cristina Moldoveanu]

I am happy that you find it nicely expressed.