my hands tremble
like the hands of a brave alcoholic
in need of caresses
my hair falls
like tears
like feathers
and my teeth are black with rage
little running fields
and vast fields of tobacco
in my eyes
orange trees in flower
showers of bright coins minted by the Pope
when I laugh
when I cry
nothing is seen
four by four by four
my life is a nipple of mother of pearl
my life is a child with too many feet
these stories that we read
are long
like skeins of smoke 
without fire
and then there is this
my ears are good 
they have landed like delicate birds
on either side of my face 
for reasons of deportment
one says yes and one says no
and I hide in the smoke
of an excellent cigarette
which wisely glows 
and sometimes says yes sometimes says no
when I slip my jacket on
and when with all seriousness
I take up my razor in the morning
I do not look in the mirror
and say what the hell is that
but stare at a small clock
which never shuts up
and which sustains me effortlessly
like the noise of that river going on and on