The Cove

What's behind that playbill
behind those vaudeville lights
shining intermittently on the brick wall
in a September night?

What's behind your eyes
behind that Vodka veil
letting transpire in places
solitude, discharge or,
scaring me,
suicide?

If the enlightened belfry clock strokes
break your explanations
if your face is warm
but your bottle green jacket
is watertightlipped
if there are no road lines
and you keep looking ahead
always ahead,
tell me:
what's inside of you?

The nothing can't be described.
And when you believe that poetic deaths intrigue you,
well, maybe you are already a step too far in there,
where even speleologists piss in their pants
there where the world was born and you laugh in the cradle
where bears and dolphins orbit above your young thoughts
telling you'll never be ballerina
never my wife nor rhymer,
always only an odd firefly.

Your on/off body shows the way
between cosy caverns and narrow docks
aquatic carnages and Bateaux Mouches.

But you
alone
deep down in your pupils
restrict yourself to burning
to burning dimly
in that lovely darkness.