At the balcony in the autumn heat it is not I dwell
It is you who sit here in the shaky chair, all alone, neglected.
Because after entering into me, you became myself.
And this is a clue: all motions died - slash – resurrected.
And, as the one doesn’t remember himself, from inside
I don’t remember you. Though, that one, who looks at me out there,
Sees your coarse features’ soap babbles soar, collide
In that hellish iciness, which quite impossibly bears
Not even small regards to our shadows, dreams or ghosts,
To all this world brimful with, as a can with cod-liver oil,
So much that its content oozes upon the sheets and across
The brow of a varmint punk, dripping down like sweat, in turmoil
Of San Francisco’s noon, when pretending that you are me, as
You shuffle off along the street guilelessly called ” Market”
And inbreathe this blissful world, now for you approached less,
Even with pores of my red, cheap buskin, but you would not mark it.