Copyright © 2018 Irina Moga


An inventory of small feathers,

of pebbles barely

sewn into a hem of light,


that stirs up dust from corridors around the house.


Stories that our senses adjourn on

from fragments of desires,



blurred vision and repetitive music,

trailing into the torrents of

a harp.

 This poem was originally published in the literary magazine "Salamander Poems"