A woman walks her dragonflies
along the clocks nailed to the trees:
5:32, 7:09, 2:57, etc.
Wristwatches and snakes hang from the twigs and branches,
tiny frogs invent noise and roar in the dust,
dogs hide on the roofs from their own barking,
wunderkinder poke dirty fingers into the Sun.
The smell of celestial beasts is contagious,
their spectacles never hip.


Foreign comedians gather mushrooms, walking on the walls of the castles protected by UNESCO, gibbering, making obscene gestures. Mousetraps snap time and again, but they don’t hear; death never comes in advance, you know, however much you try. They think an ouroboros is a rare bird with an especially nasty voice.