The kitchen is a promontory. The pans are reefs eaten by a wolf-wind that blows and runs

in circles on the island. The railing is a grey gust, his mate our sharp sister. Just awaken

we are the birds bent over the sink, tired of the nightly migration, confused by the rockets

that pelt our dreams.

In the entire painting it is winter.
In the music on the radio hail tolls.
Its white vibrates on the antennas and the balcony.
With its compassionate cloud muzzle
dawn drives us to life.