Wooden Laocoon, dropping at the time of the mountain with
shoulders, exposes them under a huge cloud. From the cape
gusts of harsh wind. Vote
trying to keep words, I woke up, within the meaning.
Rain is falling: twisted ropes
slash the backs of the hills, exactly the shoulder blades in the bath.
The mediocre sea moves behind the bits of a colonnade,
like a salty tongue behind broken teeth.
The feral heart still beats for two.
Every hunter knows, where do pheasants sit, - in a puddle under the bed.
Behind today stands motionless tomorrow,
as a predicate for the subject.
1975 – 1976