Drunks spreading themselves along the pier.
A girl impaling a worm on a hook
with the help of swearwords.
A lad toying with a reel–
slowly raising and lowering the bail.
Charcoal aroma set over the dock.
Blue fishing lines pulsating.
It is almost night, and yet I can still see
their lures swaying in the depths.
– translated by Mark Kazmierski
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”
“An artist whose name was Charest,
Had marginal talent, at best;
She was found, where she died,
With her eyes opened wide,
And a carving knife deep in her chest.”
– Cap’n Bean
The White Sky
I pick up my pen,
not yet writing,
the pages already full of the words of others.
I close my eyes,
not yet dreaming, night
already smeared with the dreams of others.
From beyond the pages, cries of suffering
from where unfairness coolly patrols.
I kneel under the rain,
confess under the white sky.