and although I am still leaning towards this window
I can no longer hear their barking against the moon;
the cats are sleeping on the red rug
redder than a blooming rose,
redder from your blood
and I think of leaping bodies from the bridges
of the world,
while I am ready to jump from the lip of the grave
into the mad swirl of the nothingness.
The curtains of the future are waving and yet there
is no wind.