LIGHT AND DUST

In the space between

the four seasons I’ll find you,

when children are taken out for a walk,

and souls come back

like dirty dishes in

a workers’ canteen.

We are not a religion

and nobody believes in our

holy scriptures.

Our looks hide

in the curtains’ folds

which let other people’s prayers through

and the falling light.

Will our angels touch

when we hug each other

in the dark, will someone light a candle

to proclaim a kingdom?

We are the light of a burnt match

which turns to dust

when touched.