I go to all the old haunts again

The poets alleys where once

I felt a breeze, a touch

Of something finally awakening in me

The ramshackle doors opened slowly enough

Back then, but nobody answers now;

They all got themselves lives, while I

Have got only fickle poetry as my mistress,

Who famishes me for her entertainment

And then turns on the faucet

When I least expect it; if she sees

That I have submerged myself:

She wantes me to drown in words

And I always willingly open my mouth

Together we are trying desperately

To kill me, so that a new tree

Can sprout out of my death

And maybe then new words

Will fall like leaves

And blow themselves

Away, to all the places

I have never been able

To go in this life.