Much Earlier than God
Early morning fog is thrown onto the lowlands of the city
like a blue fox fur coat.
Your soul takes in the dawn streets.
Your lips move. Your clouds roll in the sky.
You are a local magician with a two days’ growth of beard.
You find meaning where you least expected to find it,
like money in a pocket of an old coat.
You step over a morning streamlet, the source of a future waterfall.
You stroll across an empty hangar with sleeping airplanes of future events.
All you see is a soft shell of the unripe day,
pale skin under the nylon of swim trunks,
an unprotected fontanel of a new-born baby.
You entered this world much earlier than God,
approached the sleeping building in good time,
and you have a lot of time to spare.
The city looks like a woman with no make-up on.
Here it is, a free minute to do magic.
Amazing clarity descends on you
like the reviving effect of smelling salts -
through the trash cans, apple trees, through the optimistic dogs,
through the gloomy arches of passes-by,
you clearly see the whole world like a beetle on your hand.
Like a crystal bucket with the sand of sunlight.
Like the innards of a rabbit, like a Dali’s painting.
Like a sleeping flower with a bee crawling down a petal.
You both see a burning candle and its reflections
through the looking-glass of concrete.
