Unclear Encounters

Those who met by chance on the road were strangers they didn’t speak

they didn’t beckon with their hands or a glance Although

they looked as if they agreed with the moonlight entering through

the blinds in a closed villa as though in agreement with the whimper

of a shirt falling on the floor – Perhaps Hellenes. They had

a scar on their foreheads – an intimate mark – some time ago red

had turned whitish lighting their faces They didn’t speak

Only during the nights of September, they look absentmindedly

at the gardens of old houses, the gas stations the kiosks

a light blue lamp under the trees the clock of the

Customs Building and bit by bit their arms became longer

and they turned into fishes those who learned the deep

underwater voices and now stay silent

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