Again winter’s hand
Holds up this bitter capsule
Filled with black poison
Terrible yet so mild.

Biting it causes no revulsion
Or grimace – just calm
And strange solace
Unfolding in the veins.

Is it a new being? Is it you?
Born in this gentle collapse,
Put your hand on the nape
Of my neck – turn off the lights.

If I’m awake or asleep
This hand holds my head
And guides me to a dream
In the cave of your lips.

This is how I will live
Through winter’s deathly caress
A loving touch is a gift
Of faith and nothingness.

This work is used with permission of the author and is taken from Venedi – An East European Perspective

We close the eyes of the dead
Because that’s a gate and road
Where we do not wish to walk

And cover the trauma and wound
Because such body, live and open,
Points to the circuits of soul

Us, living and well, we hide our sex
Since it’s a wound – never healing
And the spirit’s eye – ever open

But it is a live wire
Connecting you and me and the other world
A way of going to sleep

While the dream moves us to wake
Not in the bedroom or dark alley of shame
Not in the grip of regret and scorn

But crowned by moon, sun and stars
And blessed by flutterings of grace
Where Time like a dove lands in St Francis’ hands.

This work is used with permission of the author and is taken from Venedi – An East European Perspective