Poets

What ever happens: we've got several birch trees by the open window, and anything will match with them. Every hand gesture, a start, perhaps, a piece of paper. Or the row of houses in rain or sun or as

We look at windows and balconies as we look at a pack of deer. But we make no sound to rouse them, we don't duck down beneath any broad horizon we just sit down. We're quite happy, drinking and smoking,

This hazy, busy place. Red houses follow red goats. We draw up plans. Speak goat and sparkler, goat-not-kid. That should be no surprise, we rattle bells, the sun's out. We