What do I have, what is left to me
from green galleries
popping up in spring
with light rain,
when there’s not much world left
from the tight embrace,
when you’re stepping on my toes
to fly off, still alone,
and the echo returning to me with:
far, far away, it’s all far away.
I’m like a snake that has crept
on the afternoon table waiting
to be cut in half by a sunray
in the name of love,
at night I hear only planes, no stars,
with your comet’s tail
oozing into all-devouring darkness
between my palms,
among all other things, what is left?
Cranes constructing something and
bulldozers with their large jaws eager
to bite into old remains or just those
that seemed fresh only yesterday.