I lift
the stone
and find
red

the sky
is the outer
shell of mother’s
breast

they kissed
to imitate
a sleeping
sound

I allow
the species of rock
to define
my heart

so many
drunks
surround me
like a fence

I collect
our sighs
like crumbs
of drying wax

if shop windows
were mirrors
we would buy
ourselves

I pick up
a wet piece of paper
on the other side
said: impossible

I return
to the stone
lift and find:
archers with ash bows

my vision
turns red
and partly
unborn

I listen
to wisdom
and remember
its broken wings

I sit inside
a library
because there is
nowhere else to go.

Nihilistic Poetry