am cold
cobblestoned shivers
funerary lights
begin to flicker
the day is dying
the roads clear
I’m feeling as old
as this twilight
an old harlequin
that has thrown away
his ecstasy
downtown by the fountain
youth is still pure as jagged rock
but there is still passion in me
lust for hydrants and their impassive
shadows
zest for the ripples dust engraves
in the puddle at my feet
a sort of love
for the stoic repose of third-floor
windows
that air is rich in smoke
the day is agonizing
I’m sitting on a bench
as if waiting for the miracle
of a young hand offering
me a sip of wine
perhaps then I can return
to the old delirious evenings
of unrecorded
and forgotten acts.

Nihilistic Poetry