THE FATE OF ULYSSES

The bright lights of the night's feathers... The ointment of a cylindrical prayer is now - Spy aphorism... My Siamese soul, caressed between a woman's fingers, a stained, fat racket... In an announcement that no one hears, the old baker sells bodies. Fingers fall from behind every window, a clan cemetery at their tips The sound of children dying on watery slopes, approaches me in .sandals. I collect my shadow from the strawberry garden. I find peace in sleep. Young gloom remembers my traces on my feet. With every opening of a black encyclopedia, I search for my plural face in the pages. Balloons fill the sky. In the bottle I blow, the ocean breeze... Someone sings lullabies and my eyes swing in the newborn's cradle.