not exactly a poem

I no longer write poems
I talk to the daughter of the dead miner
or lick anthracite breasts
with the tip or my tongue
or drink black tea
laced with bergamot
as if looking at the window
but really not
sometimes I see the gap
between your life and my death
where there is room enough for both
especially in January when one needs
nothing else to sit to drink black tea
with the black eyes of the blind to look
at each other and see white snow
white sheet of paper white body

--- from unwritten histories
Eugenijus Ališanka
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