Once having a stretch of eleven days
to explore your provincial city
with its dirty gauze on the windows
I have found that they smell like milk and dust
during inscrutable hibernation.
It's not a big deal for you, still young and good-looking plebeian,
to look up into the sky
to watch airplanes fly up
while lying on the car's hood
in the old drowsy hollywood style.
You think about pretty little things
the way your hair looks near your temples
about safety pins you just have seen in stock
or pine tree needles fallen down on the doorstep last autumn.
There were the days when you were rescued fast
just by an idle whim
to turn some silly thrill or secret dream
in clear and useless words
It makes you sick, the idea of how much you can
when you are just one-on-one with giddy obscene thoughts
You begin to proceed with such an assured easy air
I don’t jump for joy up to the sky anymore
when I find your picture in my record book.