“Who is going to receive me?” – Kafka

I have returned to the place

one calls home:

a pond,

a house,

a yard,

a torn piece of frozen cloth

wrapped around a flagpole,

rattling in the wind.


In the doorway

your shadow stands untouched.

Your warm breath still

lingering around your absence,

you have left

before you could receive me.


And my head turns as

the old picture on the wall

drops its edges,

undressing the image

it had carried on its back –

Streaks of red flower branches

rush down

like streams of ink,


flows quicker

than those years of unanswered solitude

can bear.

  • Published in Oberon Poetry Magazine, Eighth Annual Issue, 2010.


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