Xareni

In a room that creaks, listening to the rain, I turn to him and speak, say this is not my tune, he looks away, my words are too few, the walls are washed green, the moon sits waiting, It knows where I've been, Paris and sunlit avenues, not somewhere opaque, places with sinews, wrapped in a cotton sheet, he pulls at my traces, his long gait and knees, the shingle is slippery, the bed's like a cradle, you can smell the sea, love marks the day. .