The apron icing is such that there is no reason to break through to your car
through station dens, police barriers to a conductor without coupons.
They are running after me, arrows are looming, I succeeded or would have succeeded, but how lucky.
Everything superfluous overboard, even flowers, even a watch and this smile, ridiculous, it does not count.
What would poets say to this by shooting cigarettes from me while dragging on?
And which of them would sing about it, looking back at himself?
What would poets be silent about, smoking my cigarettes, grinning?
Maybe that it’s so hopeless to live flexibly.
I’m running and laughing: but for some, the sun, someone is happy, someone is waiting,
someone is dating someone.
And for me, only a winter-homeowner blows snow somewhere, carries, carries
all your trains.
And yet, what would the poets say, shooting my cigarettes, dragging on?
And which of them would sing about it, looking back at himself?
What would poets be silent about, smoking my cigarettes, grinning?
Maybe that it’s so hopeless to live flexibly.
