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