Cold breezes from the windows
by Eugene Issaus
when I sit and stare
the book flip open
the words begin to fuse
and my mind starts to blur
the clock stops, and then reverse
the second-hand backwards, the minute-hand forwards
the Earth spins in S-shape
Promised not to be a stone anymore
and I have to do what I’ve said
Why is it the same shameful story?
I feel like a dummy.
Just laugh at myself,
I start to cry,
but my tears coagulated before they can burst out.