Fathers with strong fists
Light late at night glaucous light bulbs
Of beloved screens
Red fingers Clasping the metal of cans
Or stroke the slippery necks of green bottles
Later they sleep but don’t dream
Wake up every now and then
Covered with silver dewdrops
Listen to creaking floor
Passionate melodies of door handles
In doors that have been long
Shut closed
When first scream of dawn
Shaking awake from the night
They get up, Honing
Knees and dusty soul
Loudly splutter in tiled bathrooms
Pattering feet on the wooden floor
Spurting metal pots
That cannot be smashed
Sons of fathers with hard jaws
Wake up five minutes after dawn
With alarm clock spoons on the floor
Overfilled souls on shoulder
Carefully dressed in tidy Grey rags
Wincing in the surface of blue mirrors
Then with quite morning porridge
Eyes paint shapes of far away islands
And dark, warm caves
Where they can dream each night
Dreams scented with sea power
Dark sides of the moon.
Shine during the day with gloom of the well
(her black iris gobbles up the pupil)
In the unbreakable shadow hide
Outlines of dust rings
(her lips seem to say
Us is gone)
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