Mediterranean
Mediterrán

Our bed is rocking like the sea
beneath a ship. Your smell
is as unfamiliar as the harbour
to the tramp steamer.

I cling to you, water to skin.
The cells of my body are shoals
of excited fish and now the funnel
blares and the nets
are broken, the mesh has caught
on a reef. Sailors' arms
are glimmering in the regular
strobe of reflectors, the beams

of a squeaky, revolving
lighthouse. The gulls are ripping
the kraken to shreds: it chews
and digests its own body.

The ship splits in two,
the decks' tiny splinters pierce
the entire surface of the skin,
a pool of diesel spreads across the water.

The Table
Az asztal

Inside the table the wood is still alive,
the fever and fret of the loud forest
has wormed its way in, echoes in the grain,
I pick up its vibration when I touch it.

I'm running through dead leaves, skipping
past roots more muscular than my arm,
the thrushes warble in step with the pulse
of my brain. I am so much alone

I am a child. My feet are a constant drumming
as I run, I am screaming but cannot find you,
you've hidden somewhere, chattering and laughing
and watch me, while munching wild strawberries.

The mountain air is trapped
in the table's vascular baggage.
It is only with an axe that I can free it,
liberate it as one might a spirit,

I start it up like an old engine,
let its momentum take it, let it buzz
with energy, spin faster than the brain can,
let it drag the whole landscape behind it.