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Fabius Lind’s days are running out in blood.
Red serpents of failures empty his veins.
In his head—white muddy stains. Confusion.
And a heavy load on his heart.
He could have . . .
He could have . .…
I inherited naive open-heartedness
From generations of small-town Polish Jews,
And sharp talk
From hot-bathed women in my clan.
A blind June-night mixed it all
And sent me out—
With no…
I saw myself in a dream
Head bent, on the fifth floor
I was thinking of something, looking out the window
Recalling something, I suppose.
And the sidewalk was so close,
Looking up at me with mild…