Morning
Sometimes when I look at you, you turn out
your face
Nothing was certain then. A bottle of milk
at the door
Bathrobe drying over the bath. And your
pantyhose dancing bolero
Morning sneaking slowly through half-open
window-vent
For a moment, just for a moment
Feel your presence, hear
These forgotten words, turn to dust this
silence
Fulfill this mean emptiness which came into
being
translated by Robert T. Rutkowski |