I feel like the inside of empty bottles.
After milk
in a peeled crater, in a cold
Morning.
Trees tap like glass fragments
jumping on morning skin
Mother.
The cold grinds its teeth,
And all I can think about is simply a warm dream.
Even in my sleep I see sinister
images.
The station smells like urine that doesn't
He knows love.
The planet is simply a station,
on which trains never
They come on time,
and erstwhile they arrive – they are empty as
bottles.
Noli me tangore.
