I let the coastline encroach
On my restlessness.
Its late fragments of stone—
Flaunting, like diamond studs,
Allegorical coastguardsmen.
Freshness doesn’t approve my dissymmetry
Crammed in the spandrels of cells.
Weightless and slick,
The breeze kisses my lips
To lead me back to my salt prototype.
A step closer
And the sea’s fine frivolity
Will wheedle my predisposition
To the amphibious.
I have my back burdened with the notion of nakedness.
As if from the horn of plenty,
My previous faces roll down
To kiss all shades of the transcendence.
Too much of mica
Can cleave the sense of things such as
Mobile sands,
Catabolism,
Pain in the temporal bone,
Alienation,
Missing punctuation marks,
Hysteric incongruity,
Unrequited love,
A needless piece of advice,
Piled dead corpses,
And etc. and etc.
I’ve never thought
Whether scallops know the difference
Between tears and pearls
Because the grit always knows
How to subdue the dark secrets
To meet the cliché.
Beyond my modest knowledge
Each bloodline has its own individual plans
Depending on
Confined in vials vectored messages—
Discarded or never received,
Left or right hand written.
Vyarka Kozareva lives in Bulgaria. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, Ann Arbor Review, and is forthcoming in Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Juste Milieu Lit, Sampsonia Way Magazine, and Triggerfish.