I am here alone
reaching out to the sun,
which hangs on a thin thread
in the corner of the sky, swaying gently.
Nobody else knows I’m here
in this white and primordial house
made of clouds, in front of the garden
of plowed shadows.
The wind is looking for his foggy keys
to sneak through the door.
Each stone outside is a captured David,
waiting to be carved out, every bone in me
belongs to someone else who has yet to
be born, every breath I take is already
exhaled by some dying creature.
I am here alone
and slowly growing old with a smile.
The tomatoes turn red in the garden
as the face of a politician on trial,
girls with the color of sparrows cross the street
and their laughter rises up and gets lost
inside the crevices of my blue childhood.
Suicidally beautiful boys, like angels, run
over and fly away.
The rays of the sun’s octopus
penetrate the window and fill up the room
to the ceiling, the waves of time splash
and crash into the walls, a moth flies over
and disperses scents of silky old age. Life
stretches from room to room like a gold
toilet paper roll and then stops.
An old woman dressed in black,
stooped like the letter C, stands in front of
the door and whispers something to me
about my life,
which I can’t fully understand.
Peycho Kanev is the author of six poetry collections and three chapbooks. His poems have appeared in Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, The Evergreen Review, The Adirondack Review, and many other literary magazines. His latest chapbook, Under Half-Empty Heaven, was published in 2019 by Grey Book Press.