Disfigurements
The modest, the simple, the right to bread, the bed that
was made of planks, a humble window without a feather
a few books next to it. A lightness blown straight from
the afternoon sky. Here, only here, the minimal, the
basics of the internal view, the alarm clock, the saw,
the shelf,
with the green bottles, and the naked arm on the chest.
We, of course, had our secret dead men and other
distances, long, short, with shops lit, between 7 and 10
o’clock, by old oil lamps, where the naïve daughter, half
dressed, for the first time discerns, in the old mirror,
her right leg enlarged up to the opposite hill and the cart
with the long crests that passed and missed her.
Manolis Aligizakis 