I quit my job in the spring, the treetops were setting the buds on fire, and I no longer had a boss and colleagues. The night created a standpoint, from the outskirts of my shadow I was looking at my old house.
The midnight abruptly switched the windows off, filled the walls with blindness. I knew that space well, a sudden vibration of the fridge, the glow of a muted TV, talking with my brother about video games until we fell asleep.
A flock of magnolia leaves was patiently waiting for a gust of wind, the night was already crucifying Orion. I selected my brother's phone number and texted him: "Are you awake? I'd like to ask you something."
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #9
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