Poezja

It went through me 
the hot day; 
vaulting back. 
at night. 
To hustle the poetry things. 
 
Weary of the luminous 
dials. I want to 
think in dark. 
 
* 
 
The bookcase was empty. 
Croaking words 
had departed for 
greener pastures. 
 
Hold on. 
I am coming to 
defuse the grenades.