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Nicoleta-Ruxandra Bohat Poem
Complex of ideas
My hands smell like wood and, as I shout for a beginning, I pull myself out of me.
The laughter is shaking inside, it slips from head to foot and climbs…
I’m a young old man, for I have fed myself with old age…
That is why I have muscles so loquacious, so wise, so mild…
I always knew that love means whisper, smile, black and white…
So what that I wear with me this complex of ideas like marsupials wear their
young?
Copyright © Nicoleta-Ruxandra Bohat | Year Posted 2008
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