the impossibility of life is in
his beauty:
the beauty is a flower in
the cemetery-

new life
and old death:
dung-beetle pushing his own
little treasure,
and sunshine, always sunshine
why?

I hit the window
and my phone starts to ring,
I count to 11
and it stops.
somebody wants to speak to me,
to listen to my voice, somebody needs me
why?

I want to set on fire all the pigeons on
the square,
I want to drive my index finger on
the edge of the knife
I will send my love in a package
to Africa

the phone is silent

I water the flowers.