I feel as if I am standing behind myself.
Happiness only exists
as a metaphor. Thoughts numbered themselves
and lined up in two rows. Here words
find no compassion.
We are the assailants in the courtyard
sparking fires. Discussing politics. Engaging
in games of chance.
Eye at the window and she five meters
away from me. Searching for baby powder
in the rubble and the broken glass. Three hours
to the border
of New York. Harbor waves break bright red.
Less now than my own shadow I doubt my senses.
A golden landscape begins to freeze. I touch
the skin of my empty hand. Blood
echoes in the tunnels.
Let the guards sleep. Patient absurdities
will blend us together. Slip past
our fragile gatherings on the commons. I am
walking when the first snow
falls on the horizon.