when you point your tongue
at me and down go your masks
I can see the sun in your face
and quickly go blind

then
your box with smiles
opens its fan and the star
climbs another street
up to that lip where grandma
is washing her tumblers


actually this is the promised
orchard. The Blind man will
pick up an apple and will
count your shapes with
his white club

maybe your body will sing
so that the mouth of the
game wouldn’t close
maybe……….