In "Hotel Passage”,
Hearing gamblers losing,
Swearing, moving tired chairs,
Bed sheets hung heavily
From a Soviet bed,
Like an osier’s foliage.
In the morning you are a tousled tomtit
That nestles in the pages of my poems.
The lilies on French wallpapers
Slumber, still.
In the morning I am a stabbed,
Stupid Agnus.
Outside roofs crackle under the autumnal sun,
Like dry branches.
A pigeon sat on a chapped window sill,
So curiously turning its neat neck it
Glittered
Like confetti.
This room is old and over-due.
When the air gets stale,
We will leave,
My love.