Poezja

A tumbler climbs a rain 
in all crimelessness. 
Perhaps you will never know 
my invaginating self. The thirst has 
become a river. 
 
A pile of books and I cannot read. 
The shadow lengthens on the wall. 
An eagle melts in the air. 
They are shifting him for amputation. 
Truth cannot walk. 
 
I become my father tonight 
and watch the house burning. 
I am told there was lot of bleeding before. 
There will be no need to rescuscitate. 
The dead man says, why not?