–Boris A. Novak
No star can help me any more.
I stare into the frozen northern skies,
the south is hidden. The white city
where I was raised lies
dying beyond the starry wall of the southern horizon.
An ever thicker crust separates
me from myself. And I can only see
the shadow of my dead half through a moist
mist: as if I tremble, having no bottom,
and touch my dark face.
My only home is my throat.
Photo by Jeremy Perkins on Unsplash