On the first day he wore an iron armour for flying.
Underneath there was a heap of soft feathers
and every word in his mouth
had a spike or two, a beak or a conductor’s baton.
I opened his mouth and carefully took out all the words
lining them up on a coffee-table.
I sharpened the weary beaks a bit and returned them to
It was all happening in silence for the first several years.
Cherry liqueur poured down the small table where
his words had been spread. We were climbing
underneath the table to lick it
looking at each other without batting an eye,
knowing it will all soon be over.
Those were the winters, one whiter than the other,
climbing upstairs in their shoes.
Wedding parades were there, tree tops, wooden beds
with their worries and railway terminals.
His armour hid the huge machinery exhaling
deep sighs underneath the earth. His mighty birds,
arks, fly eggs, stilted etudes, pathetic sonatas
were marching ahead of us on night roads.
When it was all over he proclaimed me his fellow one.
He placed all eyes in drawers leaving only
a pair of confidential ones.
I carry it with me to towns, towers, in sickness
and in early morn,
that confidential pair of mountain flower bulbs.