Blessed.

At the signals
The crow-eyed woman
Visits me:
Beti, God will do you good.

Clink. The transaction is made.

Fading

In small, newspaper boats
My life travels to you

My hands and yours
Dragged on dirty tables
The unsure edges seeking
Shelter of your imaginary shores

Meanwhile

The newspaper
Screams reality of the
Day before.

I do not need you.
I do not.
I drink the smell of your
Skin often in my mind
I seek out your dark soul
And push Time.

Your breath, your words,
Those spurts of abrupt
Laughter
Nights and days and nights and days
And this life and the next
And all the gestures of love
Bursting out of nowhere
Stirring this faded Universe

Mock love, mock pain

The drama of little souls
Travelling in little paper boats.