***
I didn’t know wether to laugh or cry
when I saw
a pixel today,
extracted carefully
from Mona Lisa’s hands,
to make them breathe,
to make them stand
straight up
from flat on canvas
into a 3d sculpture.
Almost the same as I’ve been doing
with one’s hands
putting them into the dimension
of poetry,
into the air
that surrounds my daily lull,
to feel the faint skin scent
of those fingers –
a glimpse of sea
crashing against my eyes,
when those palms are moving
over my body,
when they are claiming me,
leaving the sparks
wherever they are touching,
the hands that day-by-day
tear the pixels
from my heart,
leaving no scars,
only the black cells,
the same as you did
tear out
Gioconda’s muscle –
the last attempt to make her smile,
the last attempt to move out
of the prison of a canvas,
into the spring air.