A bowe touches my dream in grey sand cloud
It sucks leafs from wet ground
Calls it fur of grief of future

Staples birds’ breath to the mist of sound

I call it order of nature.

My claws are in my eyeprints today.
It’s night.
They flow into multicoloured virtue.
Like bees on flowers.
To suck
To caress
To wipe off petal drain of honey.

Won’t you ask the trunk
Where drops of frost went?