poem for my
49th birthday
the loneliness of objects
at evening in look-alike streets
the gnarled names
carved in trees
like the painted empty space
next to widows
in their twin
beds
or think of the dark silence
of the musician at the wedding
the smell of dead furniture
in second-hand shops
the feeling that someone
on the shoulders of someone
is watching too over the wall
of years
anyone alive also knows
the horror of marriages
the days that come
the days that go
like sex on a sunday morning
and butter that’s good
for your cholesterol
the friend with his
all-of-a-sudden lesbian wife
then stays on nine more years
first love was there
then love was not there
then there was not love
thinking about
a face as of
a commercial the jingle
that sticks in your mind
suddenly along the
motionless river bank
my vigilant father walks
resistance is no virtue
but shows where the very own
storm is forming
I am the boy
say to those to come
that I will
walk
in the dissembling present
towards the end
of the night
until the morning-red rain
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