just for a minute
turn to Jerusalem, to the eastern wall, poor soul.
glory tо you, say, a poet of grape fruit, I mean it!
glory to you taking a bread from the soil!
and only then
telling that tale,
vanished in outsidewindow clay, in a grim will around
in a nocturne bird, in a lilac swipe of the gale
only then, taking a notebook, cry of your wound.