One day you are born
with the umbilical cord around your neck
a slight hypoxia
time flies for some time
you take the child in your arms
he leans backwards like a woodpecker
on the trunk of a rotting tree.
Retouch on the young faces of old people
while they live in sepia fog
underlying the hope for not dying.
The grey tulle of cobwebs round the lamp
a streetwalker of August nights
a darling of drunks and dogs.
One moment later a moment of tepid heat
a listless sun warms up
the withered skin of October
the painted lady drinks cold dew
she needs a satyr smelling of estrus.
You don’t run away for fear of disappearing
evaporation sublimation never mind.
One after another pass away pedestrians
in different stages of decay.
The swelled sky wants nuclei
of condensation what a relief
even if unbecoming
the rain highlights the blue veins on the stone
its unfathomable internal life.
On a January morning you cuddle
a mug of hot coffee behind the window
a senile oak hangs around
in wet socks of moss
the winter will go by
as everything else you and me.