once i opened my window and you sat there, like a pale, long-legged bird. i think you tried to speak, but you may have been weeping. i asked you why you were sitting there, in a tree, in december, but you simply shook your head, unsmiling, and blew me a kiss. only when you had jumped did i remember that you no longer slept beside me. this brought me a bitter sweat-wash of regret.
i’ve got a claim to fame.
Instead of cajoling romance out of the woodwork
I focus on overthrowing these bartering tables
No one in my temple has any patience left
For trades and vanities
And I simply dig with sore and ugly hands
Towards foundation
Even so, remnants of illusory magic cling to me
And remain - in rapid succession I am
Knight errant, scornful genius, cynical fortress
An overworked platitude
And nothing fits for truth is more complex than labels
More than a cardboard caricature in pastel chalks