“Under the grieving trees / sways an infinite loneliness.”

“…and we speak and we’re quiet / and we understand that we are all trapped…”

“When I’m 37 years old, I won’t be bald. I won’t wear white robes with red intestines in the pocket.”

“What’s missing, what isn’t there, creates the poetry.”

“The beach was empty, the water calm, but on a pole a few meters from shore a red flag was waving.”

You have seen this play a thousand times,
but as you are about to wake up
for the first time you will notice a telegram
on the gramophone:

No one trusts the city streets any longer, and the streets trust no one either. The buildings, too, tip their gutters to pour their algae onto mute life.

so much depends on how many

steps you are able to take

after crossing

imaginary lines

I exist outside of time.
You open the door, and beneath your bare feet
crunches glass, wind rushes
into your eyes. You open your hands,
and husks and ashes dance
in an unending chain.