I remember the days when I did not have this lump of sad intoxication down my throat.

some evenings are quiet
some are not
i am alone
i the balcony
at this quiet hour
listening only to the -slightly deranged- upstairs neighbour
spitting on the ground
from the balcony above me
i drink the last drops of port
imported from my last trip to portugal
imported from a place i loved within a week
what happened to me?
what happened?
when did i fall asleep and
have i woken up?
i am trying to count minutes
minutes and hours
before someone comes and
takes me out of this
out of this.
i will be waiting minutes and hours
and drops of wine
drizzle and driving
some evenings are quiet
this is not

LVII- E.E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
W[ViVa], 1931: LVII)

No one knows that I am not well