the night is coming slowly like old
gray cat and I am
looking for matches

the hunger of the mind
insist to carry on and not to feel sorry
for the missed words

the night knows how much to fill my glass
and after that to stand up and
to pour water from the kettle
on the thing in the flowerpot

the night is dying of thirst like
wheat in August

the streets are gloomy and silent
welcoming my steps upon the faceless
sidewalk, reminding me your silence
during the times of our war

the world turns slowly like a cripple
going nowhere with all the things upon it
and the silence the silence yes,
just for a while
while the audience applaud within
my bones

I could continue to paint but I will leave this
to the old dead dogs barking in my back yard
between the roses and the stones to do it

the night bents down over the flowerpot
and she says:
you are quiet
ah, you are so silent

my eyes believe in everything
and the honorable ladies sleep with
the picture of Paul Newman
waiting for their eternal repose

the water is pouring upon the green thing
just like the wind parts the curtains in the sky.