A poem by Agnes Marton

 
Furaibo, Parting

Nothing stays still,
nobody stays.

Fluffing feathers restless for the take-off,
I’m just laughing, sad: love changes its wings
too often, too soon. Unveiled
cathedral of your face
is getting new tulle layers
impossible to fly through,
blurred vision and slurred speech.
But in thought I’m there, woven in that shroud
to change some detail on you,
today’s wink
to remind me
and remind you of me;
or just another spark.

Veiled ever since, your face,
could be some smiling else’s.

Inaccessible
like the past,
identikit to cope with.

From beyond your grille-lashes
flights of the early, the late,
flights of the exact, unforeseen.
 
(published in Gateway, USA, 2012)
 
 
Agnes Marton: Hungarian-born poet, editor and linguist. She participates in art projects such as Art et Jardin (France), So What (New Zealand) and Appeal 2012 (South Africa). Her publications include Sculpture/poésie, Gateway and The New Encyclopaedia of Hungarian Literature (co-author).

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