the sirens call on Sunday
                they use my phone
and make my father dial my number in the morning —

                there is a slumber still
                between the softest cushons
and birds may think my window is the endless sky —

                my mirror tells me something
                instead I use the coldest water
and feelings grow that I should trust the hidden key —

                I used it in the evening
                I turned around the metal
and entered home of someone else that I should never see —

                mysterious are the walls within
                there is a power of the lost
and tiny bits of fortune make me call this number back.

        © Dominik Alexander / 2023
        © Erik Karits (image)