Aneta Popova Poems

Good morning - he'd say.
Before he starts
to comb out
the lice of my brain.
...

He is a drunk!
He is a drunk!
A southern bagpipe
full of mesmerizing tunes.
...

It was 10 a.m.
we were the early customers
he was shouting
the salesman
...

In night the moon is blue
always for the animal hearts
pasted on the velvet sky
the mute cradle
...

Walking through the corridor
he left the building
hit the road with a hard
firm sole
...