Poets

In the courtyard where the cooing of pigeons was all too easily predictable, I heard a singing, which, freeing itself from the whining sleet around us,

Death. Don't be afraid. Do not dither before my door. Come on in. Read my books. You are part of nine out of ten. I know about you.

Father. Undress yourself. While you still may. Show me what time has scarred since we sat in the bath together and I proved that waterdrops want to touch one another.