47 ...And on the threshold of your eyes, in swelter, In sweat, with withered, brittle lips, with ruffled And flowing-out, escaping eyes, and tangling With air, with light, with crumbled tongue, I stumble. To hold your heavy eyeballs that collected The toll of my now naked yes, the toil Of my now idle hands, across the threshold, And inwards, through your eyeholes now I fall...







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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