I want to tear the sky
with someone’s eyelashes,
to fill the puddles
and drink them dry,
eat mud with virgin blossoms,
ferment the new alchemy
of the skill of being a dog,
to bark at the sheep in myself
and smoke from the chimney of my home.
But something stops me.

I have to sneeze all of my doubts,
to infect the spring sunsets
with the lack of pathetic, to remember
which book to whom I give
and if he doesn’t return it,
to tear mold pages from him,
to burn and swallow them, breathe them in
like scales of the evolved fish
of my misery.
But something stops me.

I can “pay it forward”,
rage against the grey-coned crows
who look for cylinders of a brocade end,
to be and not to be, to levitate
over the clear and the crimson, over the “musts”,
I can do it. I know that.
But something stops me.
I live on Something Str.

– Ninko Kirilov