Did the wound exist
as an appetency...

A poetic hive without the bees of words,
The song that sings me out...

In this glass menagerie
woeful and laughing veils...

Butterflies of poetry
forever flutter in their reflections...

The awe of wrinkles,
will wither and desiccate...

One for everyone
and everyone for one, deems...

Hand and guitar,
the corresponding frolics in the mirror...

Go on and forget about me.
Forget that I have ever lived...

We were talking but there
was absolute silence...

I know you all by now
must have seen how vulnerable I am...

What is more exalting than a good rest
after a good hard day of work...

You can drop bombs on my town,
shoot little boys in the head and kneecaps...