Dreaming is Not Good for Idiots

by Valery Oisteanu

The neon geometry of the afternoon fractures.
Buildings bend their stone spines
craning down like voyeurs with concrete eyes
to peek beneath the swirling skirt of the wind.
Sleeping with a mad curly priest, reaching, scratching
one must possess feet as long as church aisles,
stretching into the dark where confessions turn to moss
When passing the cemetery gates in a bathing suit
strip the lace from your skin, avoiding hospital rules
Hurl your underwear over the mossy wall laughing
a sacrifice of silk to buy good luck from the skeletons.
A corpse in a corset rotting in the heat of July
remains stubborn at his birthday party
and it will never forget the taste of the salt sea.