A balcony, engaged with too old fallen
leaves, windows with some broken or no glass at all,
a stair with plaster cracked floor, abandoned rooftop
occupied by moss— everywhere and in everything,
reflects gray and dusky circles of all the depressed
days and nights, and
center of those circles are: me.
Far away, a field mouse, repeatedly defeated with
turtles; the blood falling from its body
creats the sign of a red trail— for it
what needed is: solitude tunnel of a box- culvert
or a crop field, completely natural; or
at least a safe hole to live in.