Elena Mihalachi Poet Prose Poetry

I Fell Into a Glass of Wine

my feet same the cries of deer in the morning,
disturbs the existence of aged wine,
 much too
 drank, while the smoke of elation,
 almost non-existent
 it hits you across the cheek
 and entail questioning
What did you write in yesterday's history?
 Carrying all the words of the world in your hands you clench your knees
 as broken rudders,
 reproachfully,
The roots disturb the sky,
 you wish you could decide
 when your identity of yesterday and of today
 it's not the same
 when the verb decency has been lost,
 respect gnawed at the walls of a foreign hourglass. You melt as rain,
 on the face of a monk and flow.

All you have most sacred in your life is:
 The day you were born
 and the day you die
 wrapped in a thread of basil.

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