They sleep, eyes closed, leaves fallen
Their starlight and midnight in Zone 11
Inconspicuous smouldering in early hours
A love game on an island beaded with owls
My games do not make a system
Here is Egypt, here my fingers touch the lake
A sad city, gloomy lovers, blunt spikes
Running and standing and grinding the soil
Knives and destinies, wheels of grass
I look for a prophet drowsing on the bus
My journeys, their trains with tickets aged
My light in the room by its occupants is gauged
People a hundred times larger than mist
Hold on to their gardens around waterfalls
I have come here to be silent in hedges
Munching on in the procession of mud
It looks better digested than derailed
Down-to-earth accounting held in peanuts
Insider information, importance among branches
Ridiculous, vulnerable, conceited and proud
