Still
    
 I hear the clouds move in the air, dead and light.
 I know ghosts prefer hot tap water to wine and tea
 in the houses they would have never chosen for residence.
 Trees contemplate and books burn.
 In the droplets of the untouchable sun
 live the toys of departed children.
  
    
 Do You Really Think It’s Thursday?
  
  Laundromat roofs crumple the sky,
 distort the voices of birds in the nearby trees.
 Little girls wander the streets carrying huge buckets of ketchup,
 spilling it, splashing it on the sidewalk.
 A saxophonist plays for passing UFOs and semis.
 The statues in the park
 try to explain to each other how leaves could remain red and yellow for days.
 Temperance is a card, not a virtue anymore.
   

 Angels
    
 Angels dwell between public restroom tiles
 And laugh between the stars. They can make an
 Alphabet out of a burning pillow 
 And a language out of a frozen rat.
 Stolen poetry petrifies in their mouths.  
 


   

Ivan Peledov lives in Colorado. He loves to travel and to forget the places he has visited. He has been published in Eunoia Review, Lost and Found Times, Red Fez, Illuminations and other magazines.