So what is it after this purifying morning
this lame attempt to get it by a milk carton,
boring porridge, hundreds of espresso?
The memory will work as it did,
the birdflocks will arrive like last year
to clean up the trees
and eat it all with song.
Somewhere somebody wishes he was jam.
Wide range shouts soft and light
my mellow voice gets lost
in the melodies of seedmeal rhythm morning.
After a while I'm gone,
they will negotiate
with energetic pet owners
see-through container owners
Still, this corner will stay in my gripfist,
I couldn't understand how a bee is
I fall anap in its song,
not leaving the morning
that buzzes in and out like a housemate indeed