Intimate Circle

I forgot where I hid

the peach color morning gown

moth-eaten in its pockets

only a child I didn’t know 

that clothes are still dust 

even when they are stainless

 

the little toe of my right foot

breaks out through a hole in the sock

it doesn’t matter

if it is alone and frozen

if it is scratching the floor with its nail

finally the centipedes

are gathering the remains

climbing on the ceiling

in a protean urge

they all fall down

 

it smells badly like naphthalene

and rancid coffee

I’m stirring slowly with the teaspoon

with my little finger in extension

writing the letter „O”