Miloš Đurđević

so what's the real difference between colour and pain that heap

of clearer and purer examples mere deception what can be told

and who can you tell it to sparrows and titmice expand in

the winter sunlight shuddering like balls of dirty unmelted snow when

 

the western winds come by smelling of thaw and waters eternally tepid

at the bottom of the port the daze of dead tree trunks gurgling

of water pipes in the kitchen and bathroom come any stronger wind

the ceilings and walls in these match-boxed appartments the sounds

 

would drip leak like unaccomplished business like bitter rage

in the eyes of long neglected woman-friends getting off the tram

their looks averted to the other side the spectrum of these colours is

senseless and impossible as if one could symathize with bugs

 

or lawns in the dead of winter and then the plate of the sky starts

wriggling in the net of light condensing the sound of a slammed door

the throbbing of an engine a hiss in the neighbourhood so much

like a comma or a three dotted line on somebody else's huge

 

canvass it's then that you get up an lean against your window

the air is cold it blurrs your sight you gasp for it