Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Clockwork Beneath the Skin

The Clockwork Beneath the Skin

I unbraided through my temples a flock of deaf bells,
and my eyelids rang like harmonics shattered in mirrors.
My knees became altars burned by a wax sun,
and my ribs beat a funeral march for sunken ships.
I spat the moon from my throat, an old, cold coin,
and caught it in my palms like a bird without a name.

I searched for your name in my veins, the way one searches for water through stones,
and the echo came back mute, dressed in soot.
I shook chandeliers of nerve and ice from the ceiling,
I bit the plaster off the walls of sleepless nights,
and the floor filled with footsteps that belong to no one anymore.

With arms stretched toward the sky you break like a branch of lead,
in your gaze lie fallen altars and angels stripped of wings,
your body stitched into the shroud of an unfinished prayer,
your soles are anchors driven into ground that keeps on fleeing.

The bell sews its echo into the eardrum of the whole world;
the windows untie the eaves fastened to evening's mouth,
and, boomerang, the silver pries open crates full of darkness
and wraps the body and its shadow, stitched with the same thread.
On the back stairs, the children inside me prayed backward.

Onto the tiles of your house I fell like a rain of bells,
and the drops, like caravans, drank up the frost that followed,
and pressed to my temple, a scaffold behind bars,
I clenched between my teeth the jellyfish garment of the night
and undid the buttons, like veins laid open to the stars.

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