EVES
No one recognizes me in the dispersing crowd:
the accountant, the postman, bands of blind people,
no one sees that my hands, in the pocket of the coat,
hold a worn out caress.
The store owners lower the rollers
the guy next to me combs his hair
in front of the display window and
this night digs pits for the dead.
The paths of the body are so long that
you can’t refuse the warmth of a cinema;
the fertilizer of kisses isn’t enough
for the moon of your enamoured self
that springs out of the mirror.
Manolis Aligizakis 