The Moment

by Christos Polydorou

The moment
in which reality

is colossally suspended
within its inch

is when I ought
to start to write,

In that
purified moment

when everything
rotten

and anguished and bitter
Just stops reaching me

And I am unhinged
within my own happiness,

Also the length
of an inch.

And I am me.
And I am tree:

When my roots
reach into the earth’s

pin Into her
skin. Skin is

beauty,
beauty is skin.

And I can
sense

the universe
inching into

my soul, as though
angels

were scoring
the centuries’

joys and sorrows
on the human brow

that furrows
when it confuses

the most beautiful
of lies

with the
most ugliest

of truths.
This is the moment

day separates from night
the stars from the night sky

and a crisp summer weekend
reaches even us

in Northern
Europe.

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