Still life

by Marius Surleac

through dice the six-shooter gleams at the burnt end
of the bullet
at the other end, like in a comet tale,
blood spheres

within angles the meat pieces quench

on the alleys: first step from kids’ run,
screams in a thousandth second,
leaves stopped at a few centimetres from ground
birds with the spread wings, a shadow
getting closer to the

the lady in white put aside
her strings

Still life

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