the sky is an arch within which
the city pigeon limps through
the litter in the street
the grey trees stand at the window
a chair stands in front of it
a sill on which he sits

he uses a corner of the table
to remove the feathers
and only yellow skin remains
quite willingly
I am dragged into the bedroom

the wine is a purple line around the lips
about the mouth when the phone rings

not unsuspecting I hang onto his neck

Translation: Willem Groenewegen