Brush Strokes

Brush strokes The sky this afternoon had odd clouds looked like icebergs floating on pink air The seagulls took refuge on my terrace. A grey wolf with a leg of lamb scratched on the door, I let it in. when preparing the meat, the wolf left down the hall that was dimly lit I asked no question I remembered a Russian painter of black forests and dark red sky I think he was foresighted therefore, sent to a Gulag. The sea in the bay is dark with white spots the Russian has gone mad, was his name Kozlovski? Back in the hall where the wolf had disappeared left a pile of dung as proof, in case, I thought it was a dream.