The three of clubs and very surprised Thumbelina
In gardens of reflection
A heart is a harp strummed by the glance of a little girl
The vision scatters
I am in the middle—hung in a cage
Blind
I walk and do not move forward
I am surrounded by a silent conclave of puppet buffoons
Buzzard terrorists, sawing mandibles, ventriloquist angels
They are burning in the bed of mirrors
Seated on a throne of glances
The iceman whistles shadows and light
Letters rot in the mail boxes
Obstinate cars go by
The high electric fruit—it casts no shadow as dense as silence
It darkens
There is no one in the street now
Not even this dog
One day the streetlights will explode
The three of clubs and very surprised Thumbelina In gardens of reflection A heart is a harp strummed by the glance of a little girl The vision scatters I am in the middle—hung in a cage Blind I walk and do not move forward I am surrounded by a silent conclave of puppet buffoons Buzzard terrorists, sawing mandibles, ventriloquist angels They are burning in the bed of mirrors Seated on a throne of glances The iceman whistles shadows and light Letters rot in the mail boxes Obstinate cars go by The high electric fruit—it casts no shadow as dense as silence It darkens There is no one in the street now Not even this dog One day the streetlights will explode
[paraphrased poetry]