On my wrist nothingness flies in
and clutches the
its tired hunger
(Whose skull is moon tonight?)
or its claws or whatever.
The street runs to one apothecary;
two nevermen carry
a conversation whose text is touched by quietus.
(Knife of a cloud
dissects the sky.)
I step inside the odor of the antibiotic and sin.
your waning aura I must become an assassin.
On the night-sky-breasts
your attics head
remains alight to learn how to be fed
on the twilights lactation
Here exists no noise except
the exceptions accepted
trees, honking in the lane, crickets.
And you forge a cave with your right hand
on your left
palm where your resurrect
an insect becoming winter.