IRINA MOGA

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Walls – brick over brick layered in gusts of light, doors askance
- a wax monument to the hour.

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On narrow windows, glass shards cut out jittery clouds.

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I have stepped inside its rooms, bided my time on its terms,
listened to strange laws of symmetry under its roof,
as if an occult point of fugue, narrowed down by rubble
floated towards the equinox.

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On a cornice of mildew, the ear strains to distinguish the laughter,
and the music trapped in odors of burnt wire.

Muffled voices sift down from the ceilings.

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All is oval in the building’s lifted top, doggedly challenging the sky.

The seconds melt, fluid, tracing a flight of birds over sunken sun dials.

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This pictopoem was originally published in qarrtsiluni and is part of the book 

"Pictopoems of Berlin".