Black and white photos peel off the sky.
A horse behind a chain link fence neither slumbers nor trots.
It hides its eyes in a walking rain which doesn’t pour.
It thinks of rusty TVs and empty goblets made of tinfoil on faraway planets.
Meanwhile, a guy 128 Thomas Jeffersons tall
hears a mad squaw’s song over the mountain every minute of his life
till he is able to squeeze through any gasp or sigh, imaginary or not,
like a mouse or a raindrop, his bone structure intact. Meanwhile,
an average raindrop can’t open all its mouths at once.


Squirrels and birds love to
sing about the void in the guts.
The sky is far away, the sky where
every step is a banality.
Time and again people inevitably visit
the roofs of their dentists and car dealers.
Kettles boil in empty houses.
Forearms of hapless foundlings rot on vertical ceilings.
You don’t want to know about their motherland‘s pets.
The sky of lost hair, teeth and earrings,
the sky of imbeciles is far away.
Words of magic are stale and sloppy.
Landing angels break their legs.