Strophes (II)
Out in the garden
tramps the sodden hero,
without his way;
the ruddy dawn,
like a drunk,
encompasses him.
Clocks and desks,
white fluorescent light
he tumbles under,
with a slight weight.
No one follows,
but there are dreams,
and a heavy nostalgia,
and a cracked mask.
4/4 '11
