Because here flows even some hope from a bottle,
he drinks to a wooden table all his evenings.
Now the window opens to breathe;
the music hangs around him
smoothing his brow when he is all shadow.
On the stairs, behind the light, under the portrait,
he will drink himself out of the pool of memory,
he will carry a folded letter writing to itself.
Tasting honey, he screws on the top
but the bottle is broken
and he waits, dawn scratching at the window.
This is the dream: home is a lost child.
The cobblestones, streetlamps, from dusty roads
they erase themselves, while the windows
close their shutters against him.
