SOMEONE WRITES ABOUT ANOTHER

I have nothing whole
of my own.

Even my parents
in a way silence something
in small vortices of air
under bladestrokes
of suns rising to shine.

And between us there is nothing but
a great cycle of blood and stars
that traps us without end
in its turning, like a
blender.

מישהו כותב על אחר

מישהו כותב על אחר