by Ivan Peledov
Old buildings tend to drop books
on the toes of the tenants.
Unruly, awkward, they let the ghosts invent
languages and forget them at once.
Empty bottles on the windowsills, empty
hallways, bricks in the walls
celebrate the bliss of the voiceless.
Grasshoppers on the roofs are
in love with the clouds.
Fallen leaves devour the stairs in the park,
crawl up to the doors, unstoppable.
Time is the worst toothpaste ever made.