Quiet. Quiet midnight.
So quiet I can hear the paper
Burning on your cigarette:
That small and rosy light against
A thousand of Prague windows.
My chest swells with words
That want to touch you.
Though just a few are virile enough.
Your arms hook me from the back,
("I hear them brimming in you")
It rains.
Lamplights bust with yellow bubbles.
And in the morning it will snow:
A smiling statue in your museum.