Once upon a time specters and critters wake up confused
(Alas, there are only eleven green shoes in the whole world)
And wipe off the leftovers of their journey
Watching pigeons fight over the long tables
And the heads of singing robots that sit around:
Poetry has been left to them as a form of comfort.


The sun can barely touch a frog
Remaining in permanent confusion
Cats, dogs, people and horses that could be seen in old photographs
Have been carousing for decades in scrapyards
Constantly disguised like a glass of water forgotten on a windowsill