***
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
continues
uninterrupted
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
or
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.
