The things which did not brother you,
like crossing the crowd unspoken.
Long pauses between the questions,
halting silences between frenzied wails.
Flesh stayed untouched by hand,
center of controversies.
I still speak noiselessly,
for urgent whispers,
time for exit has come.
The fog now deepens in eyes
and then a cloud bursts.
Trickling, when you bend backward
to wet the floor of grass,
which stitches the earth.
Winds will not expose the naked skeleton
consciousness now hiccups
crumbs fall from the table.
It was not me, it was not me.
Reminded me Spanish artist Salvador Dali. If you were a bit more explicit, readers will appreciate a little more. You kept it a bit hazy when you said "bent backward to wet the floor of glass". "crumbs fall from the table. It was not me, it was not me." Had you lifted the shroud, more people would appreciate. But, as I said, your poem reminded me of Salvador Dali.
