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143
Night
night.
the wind is slamming the doors like a mad cat.
somebody opens the drawers
and closes them again.
night, sharp as a heresy.
water is dripping with slag
down the body
a thread of earth
the mirror, a heresy of the night.
like in a Chagall painting
the black rooster is running away with time in his claws.
he bumps into windows, bones, tibias,
he cuts himself on the tin roof
and screams.
inside there is silence.
those are not fighting anymore
they’ve stopped hitting themselves with the basin on the head,
only Georgeta is still making love
with a plastic hairdryer.
then somebody closes the drawers.
then nothing can be measured further:
night.
a shaggy feathery wizard
the black rooster is running away with time in his claws.