1945
I
A fatal whisper
in the mind
stirs a curtain
not the breeze
bathing behind shadows
you hear a voice
in the street pages turn
their sounds
deadly you drop into
the waters that you
drew
in your mind
of Juliet sinking
into her
tomb of crimson
robes crinkling fingers
pressed against
lips immediately
urging
stillness inside
a wave may
be heard like
splashed
letters landing
on the floor
strewn across
the earth or
corpses lying above
the soil
II
like Pages
and curtains drawn
between
cracks and silences
upon which
only the grazes
of cautious finger
tips stroking
inverted heart
beatings or turn
like lost sun
beams
on withered
weeds somewhere
in the ground
stirring in the interior
of mutated curtains
that remain
undrawn or
faintly unturned
by the missing
hands of your
pages.
-- Nina Sokol