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I kiss the left bottom corner of the photo,

I touch the force

which lifts me higher

than the airplane

that holds me tight

and brings

to Budapest.

The kiss which I began



between Brussels and Hungary,

for 2 hours

I am close to the master

of the tides –

I am almost kissing the moon

when still kissing the left bottom

corner of the photo –

your eye.

The light –

outside the airplane window,

the light –

in the left corner of the picture,

the light is time.

Cold tremor

like thin moon fire

runs down my shoulder.

Your eye is of hues of seaside


the air

before the rain.

My ear memory catches

a quick waltzing passage

of Patti Smith’s nocturne

“Because the night”,

I am thinking of how divine

your eye is,

especially, when moving,

it gets unbearably beautiful.

Time is a beauty.

Time is a verb.

A noun I am –

still in the airplane,

kissing the left bottom corner of the photo.

Your eye is a gerund,

a verb acting a noun –

a beauty in still,

a beauty in one centimeter.

Yes, there is still tomorrow,

yes, I call nothing my own,

your eye is losing its speed,

I see the surface of the moon,

the master of the tides,

the master of the seas,

the master of poetry –

we are alone, and we are not.